1.
ET, 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. 2.
Cotswold and Cooper's both have met With learn褠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 ? 3.
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. 4.
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.
