Mount Of Olives I

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.