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| 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 Humanity. | |
| 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 airs 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 rejoice to see | 15 |
| How little less then they, exalted man may be. | |
| Still the old heathen Gods in numbers dwell, | |
| ‘The heavenliest 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 Pan’s 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 deify; | |
| Find stars, and tie 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 Girls, 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 Eternity; | |
| 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 Mistress’ arms, thou most divine | |
| And richest offering 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 famed Chapel 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 joined 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 even weaker yet, | |
| Rather then thus our wills too strong for it. | |
| His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might | 55 |
| Be wrong; his life, I’m sure, was in the right. | |
| And I myself a Catholic 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 |
| Opposed by our old enemy, adverse Chance, | |
| Attacked 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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