| POET and Saint ! to thee alone are given | |
| The two most sacred Names of Earth and Heaven. | |
| The hard and rarest Union which can be | |
| Next that of Godhead with Humanitie. | |
| Long did the Muses banisht Slaves abide, | 5 |
| And built vain Pyramids to mortal pride; | |
| Like Moses Thou (though Spells and Charms withstand) | |
| Hast brought them nobly home back to their Holy Land. | |
| Ah wretched We, Poets of Earth ! but Thou | |
| Wert Living the same Poet which thou'rt Now, | 10 |
| Whilst Angels sing to thee their ayres divine, | |
| And joy in an applause so great as thine. | |
| Equal society with them to hold, | |
| Thou need'st not make new Songs, but say the Old. | |
| And they (kind Spirits !) shall all rejoyce to see | 15 |
| How little less then They, Exalted Man may be. | |
| Still the old Heathen Gods in Numbers dwell, | |
| The Heav'enliest thing on Earth still keeps up Hell. | |
| Nor have we yet quite purg'd the Christian Land ; | |
| Still Idols here, like Calves at Bethel stand. | 20 |
| And though Pans Death long since all Oracles broke, | |
| Yet still in Rhyme the Fiend Apollo spoke : | |
| Nay with the worst of Heathen dotage We | |
| (Vain men !) the Monster Woman Deifie ; | |
| Find Stars, and tye our Fates there in a Face, | 25 |
| And Paradise in them by whom we lost it, place. | |
| What different faults corrupt our Muses thus ? | |
| Wanton as Girles, as old Wives, Fabulous ! | |
| Thy spotless Muse, like Mary, did contain | |
| The boundless Godhead ; she did well disdain | 30 |
| That her eternal Verse employ'd should be | |
| On a less subject then Eternitie ; | |
| And for a sacred Mistress scorn'd to take, | |
| But her whom God himself scorn'd not his Spouse to make. | |
| It (in a kind) her Miracle did do ; | 35 |
| A fruitful Mother was, and Virgin too. | |
| How well (blest Swan) did Fate contrive thy death ; | |
| And made thee render up thy tuneful breath | |
| In thy great Mitress Arms ? thou most divine | |
| And richest Off'ering of Loretto's Shrine ! | 40 |
| Where like some holy Sacrifice t'expire, | |
| A Fever burns thee, and Love lights the Fire. | |
| Angels (they say) brought the fam'ed Chappel there, | |
| And bore the sacred Load in Triumph through the air. | |
| 'Tis surer much they brought thee there, and They, | 45 |
| And Thou, their charge, went singing all the way. | |
| Pardon, my Mother Church, if I consent | |
| That Angels led him when from thee he went, | |
| For even in Error sure no Danger is | |
| When joyn'd with so much Piety as His. | 50 |
| Ah, mighty God, with shame I speak't, and grief, | |
| Ah that our greatest Faults were in Belief ! | |
| And our weak Reason were ev'en weaker yet, | |
| Rather then thus our Wills too strong for it. | |
| His Faith perhaps in some nice Tenents might | 55 |
| Be wrong ; his Life, I'm sure, was in the right. | |
| And I my self a Catholick will be, | |
| So far at least, great Saint, to Pray to thee. | |
| Hail, Bard Triumphant ! and some care bestow | |
| On us, the Poets Militant Below ! | 60 |
| Oppos'ed by our old En'emy, adverse Chance, | |
| Attacqu'ed by Envy, and by Ignorance, | |
| Enchain'd by Beauty, tortur'd by Desires, | |
| Expos'd by Tyrant-Love to savage Beasts and Fires. | |
| Thou from low earth in nobler Flames didst rise, | 65 |
| And like Elijah, mount Alive the skies. | |
| Elisha-like (but with a wish much less, | |
| More fit thy Greatness, and my Littleness) | |
| Lo here I beg (I whom thou once didst prove | |
| So humble to Esteem, so Good to Love) | 70 |
| Not that thy Spirit might on me Doubled be, | |
| I ask but Half thy mighty Spirit for Me. | |
| And when my Muse soars with so strong a Wing, | |
| 'Twill learn of things Divine, and first of Thee to sing. | |
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