Classic and Contemporary Poetry
LINES TO ARCHBISHOP SANCROFT, by THOMAS FLATMAN Poet's Biography First Line: When I your unsought glories view'd Last Line: Almost invisible; but still shin'd-uppon. Subject(s): Sancroft, William (1617-1693) | ||||||||
MY LORD When I Your unsought Glories view'd, And prest (a meane Spectator in the Croud;) Where every Ey, with sparkling Joy did gaze, All hearts brimmfull of Blessing, & of Praise; Extatick with the mighty Theme I went, And something, some great thing to Write, I meant: This, sure, said I, must set me all on fire, This must my dull, unhallow'd Muse inspire: I try'd in wary words my Verse to dress, And throng'd my thoughts with awfull Images; For the bold Work, Materialls I desseign'd High as Your Station, Humble as Your Minde: Alas! in vaine! my owne Confusion Strait tumbled th' ill-attempted Babel downe. Much I desir'd to tell in artfull Rhymes, Your Magnanimity through the worst of Times How, like a Rock, amidst the Sea, You stood, Surrounded with a foaming Popular-Floud; In that black Night, how You still kept Your way, When all despair'd the dawning of This Day: With what true Christian Stoicisme, You durst Owne The slighted Miter, and abandon'd Crowne; As Cato for the baffled Side declar'd, Tho' all the Gods, the Conquering Cause preferr'd. Next, I would have describ'd the Happy Place Of Your soft minutes in a sweet Recess; Where all things were in Your Possession, All You need Wish, for You were all Your Owne[.] Here Emperours, & Kings, receiv'd at last The noblest Guerdon for their labours past: Less splendid were those daies, but more secure, Their last & best were gloriously Obscure. O those gay Vallies! o those lofty Hills! Those silent Rivers! & those murmuring Rills! The melancholy Grove! & peacefull Shade! For Ease, & Angells-Conversation made! The Morning's Breath! the sight o' th' rising Sun, When he starts forth, his Giant-Race to runn! Faine wou'd I have said, what cannot be express't But in the sentiments of a wellpleas'd Breast. And now (my Lord!) on Your triumphant Day, What can Your poor unlettred Beadsman say? Who know's that Praise, at the Poetique rate, Swell's to a Vice, & must deserve Your hate. When Heav'n vouchsafe's a Miracle to mankinde, Silence, & Wonder best express our minde. Durst I Presume, or could Despaire (my Lord!) I would add Here, for my owne self, one word, That I might be (whome the World frown's uppon) An Atome in the beams of Your bright Sun, Almost Invisible; but still shin'd-uppon. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ODE TO DR. WILLIAM SANCROFT; LATE ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY by JONATHAN SWIFT AN APPEAL TO CATS IN THE BUSINESS OF LOVE; SONG by THOMAS FLATMAN A CHARACTER OF A BELLY-GOD; CATIUS AND HORACE by THOMAS FLATMAN A DIALOGUE; CLORIS AND PARTHENISSA by THOMAS FLATMAN A DIALOGUE; ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE by THOMAS FLATMAN A DOOMS-DAY THOUGHT by THOMAS FLATMAN A SONG ON NEW-YEAR'S DAY BEFORE THE KING, CAR. 2 by THOMAS FLATMAN A THOUGHT OF DEATH by THOMAS FLATMAN ADVICE TO AN OLD MAN OF SIXTY-THREE, ABOUT TO MARRY A GIRL OF SIXTEEN by THOMAS FLATMAN |
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