CLVIII Sonnet
When I behold thee, blameless Williamson,
Wrecked like an infant on a savage shore,
While others round on borrowed pinions soar,
My busy fancy calls thy thread misspun;
Till Faith instructs me the deceit to shun, 5
While thus she speaks,—‘Those wings that from the store
Of virtue were not lent, howe’er they bore
In this gross air, will melt when near the sun.
The truly’ ambitious wait for nature’s time,
Content by certain, though by slow, degrees 10
To mount above the reach of vulgar flight;
Nor is that man confined to this low clime,
Who but the extremest skirts of glory sees,
And hears celestial echoes with delight.’
Benjamin Stillingfleet.