POEMS OF JONATHAN SWIFT     

  

  

       ODE TO DOCTOR WILLIAM SANCROFT[1]     

       LATE LORD BISHOP OF CANTERBURY     

       WRITTEN IN MAY, 1689, AT THE DESIRE OF THE LATE LORD BISHOP OF ELY     

      I Truth is eternal, and the Son of Heaven, Bright effluence of th'immortal ray, Chief cherub, and chief lamp, of that high sacred Seven, Which guard the throne by night, and are its light by day; First of God's darling attributes, Thou daily seest him face to face, Nor does thy essence fix'd depend on giddy circumstance Of time or place, Two foolish guides in every sublunary dance; How shall we find Thee then in dark disputes? How shall we search Thee in a battle gain'd, Or a weak argument by force maintain'd? In dagger contests, and th'artillery of words,      (For swords are madmen's tongues, and tongues are madmen's swords,)          Contrived to tire all patience out, And not to satisfy the doubt? 

      II But where is even thy Image on our earth? For of the person much I fear, Since Heaven will claim its residence, as well as birth, And God himself has said, He shall not find it here. For this inferior world is but Heaven's dusky shade, By dark reverted rays from its reflection made; Whence the weak shapes wild and imperfect pass, Like sunbeams shot at too far distance from a glass; Which all the mimic forms express, Though in strange uncouth postures, and uncomely dress; So when Cartesian artists try To solve appearances of sight In its reception to the eye, And catch the living landscape through a scanty light, The figures all inverted show, And colours of a faded hue; Here a pale shape with upward footstep treads, And men seem walking on their heads; There whole herds suspended lie, Ready to tumble down into the sky; Such are the ways ill-guided mortals go To judge of things above by things below. Disjointing shapes 

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