CANTO VI.

THô the Creation, so divinely taught,
Prints such a lively Image in our thought,
That the first spark of new Created light
From Chaos struck, affects our present sight:
Yet the first Christians did esteem more blest
The day of Rising, than the day of Rest;
That ev'ry week might new occasion give,
To make his Triumph in their memory live.
Then let our Muse compose a Sacred Charm
To keep his Blood, among us, ever warm;
And singing, as the Blessed do above,
With our last breath dilate this …lame of Love.
But on so vast a Subject, who can find
Words that may reach th' Idea's of his mind?
Our Language fails, or if it could supply,
What Mortal Thought can raise it self so high?
Despairing here, we might abandon Art,
And only hope to have it in our heart;
But though we find this Sacred Task too hard,
Yet the Design, th'endeavor brings Reward;
The Contemplation does suspend our Woe,
And makes a Truce with all the Ills we know.
As Saul's afflicted Spirit, from the sound
Of David's Harp, a present Solace found;
So on this Theam while we our Muse engage,
No Wounds are felt, of Fortune, or of Age:
On Divine Love to meditate is Peace,
And makes all care of meaner things to cease.
Amaz'd at once, and comforted to find
A boundless Pow'r so infinitely kind;
The Soul contending to that Light to flie
From her dark Cell, we practise how to die;
Imploying thus the Poet's winged Art,
To reach this Love, and grave it in our heart.
Joy so complete, so solid and severe,
Would leave no place for meaner Pleasures there;
Pale they would look, as Stars that must be gone,
When from the East the Rising Sun comes on.