Henry Vaughan. Mount of Olives.

MOUNT OF OLIVES.
by Henry Vaughan

SWEET, sacred hill ! on whose fair brow
My Saviour sate, shall I allow
              Language to love,
And idolize some shade, or grove,
Neglecting thee ? such ill-plac'd wit,
Conceit, or call it what you please,
              Is the brain's fit,
              And mere disease.

Cotswold and Cooper's both have met
With learnèd swains, and echo yet
              Their pipes and wit ;
But thou sleep'st in a deep neglect,
Untouch'd by any ; and what need
The sheep bleat thee a silly lay,
              That heard'st both reed
              And sheepward play ?

Yet if poets mind thee well,
They shall find thou art their hill,
              And fountain too.
Their Lord with thee had most to do ;
He wept once, walk'd whole nights on thee :
And from thence—His suff'rings ended—
              Unto glory
              Was attended.

Being there, this spacious ball
Is but His narrow footstool all ;
              And what we think
Unsearchable, now with one wink
He doth comprise ; but in this air
When He did stay to bear our ill
              And sin, this hill
              Was then His Chair.

Source:
Vaughan, Henry. The Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist. vol I.
E. K. Chambers, Ed. London, Lawrence & Bullen Ltd., 1896. 49-50.

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