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The muse, that soft and sickly wooes the ear
Of love, or chanting loud in windy rhyme
Of fabled hero, raves through gaudy tale

Not overfraught with sense, I ask not; such
A strain befits not argument so high.

Me thought, and phrase, severely sifting out
The whole idea, grant-uttering as 'tis

The essential truth-Time gone, the Righteous


The Wicked damned, and Providence approved.

Hold my right hand, Almighty! and me teach To strike the lyre, but seldom struck, to notes Harmonious with the morning stars, and pure As those of sainted bards, and angels sung, Which wake the echoes of eternity—

That fools may hear and tremble, and the wise Instructed listen, of ages yet to come.

Long was the day, so long expected, past

Of the eternal doom, that gave to each

Of all the human race his due reward.

The sun-earth's sun, and moon, and stars, had


To number seasons, days, and months, and years


To mortal man: hope was forgotten, and fear And Time, with all its chance and change, and


And frequent tears, and deeds of villany,

Or righteousness—once talked of much, as things
Of great renown, was now but ill remembered;
In dim and shadowy vision of the past,
Seen far remote, as country, which has left
The traveller's speedy step, retiring back
From morn till even: and long, eternity
Had rolled his mighty years, and with his years
Men had grown old: the saints, all home returned
From pilgrimage, and war, and weeping, long
Had rested in the bowers of peace, that skirt
The stream of life; and long, alas, how long!
To them it seemed, the wicked who refused

To be redeemed, had wandered in the dark

Of hell's despair, and drunk the burning cup
Their sins had filled with everlasting wo.

Thus far the years had rolled, which none but God Doth number, when two sons, two youthful sons Of Paradise, in conversation sweet,

(For thus the heavenly muse instructs me, wooed
At midnight hour with offering sincere
Of all the heart, poured out in holy prayer,)
High on the hills of immortality,

Whence goodliest prospect looks beyond the walls
Of heaven, walked, casting oft their eye far thro'
The pure serene, observant, if returned

From errand duly finished, any came,

Or any, first in virtue now complete,

From other worlds arrived, confirmed in good.

Thus viewing, one they saw, on hasty wing Directing towards heaven his course; and now,

His flight ascending near the battlements

And lofty hills on which they walked, approached.
For round and round, in spacious circuit wide,
Mountains of tallest stature circumscribe

The plains of Paradise, whose tops, arrayed
In uncreated radiance, seem so pure,

That nought but angel's foot, or saint's elect
Of God, may venture there to walk; here oft
The sons of bliss take morn or evening pastime,
Delighted to behold ten thousand worlds

Around their suns revolving in the vast

External space, or listen the harmonies

That each to other in its motion sings.
And hence, in middle heaven remote, is seen
The mount of God in awful glory bright.

Within, no orb create of moon, or star,

Or sun gives light; for God's own countenance, Beaming eternally, gives light to all;

But farther than these sacred hills his will

Forbids its flow-too bright for eyes beyond,

This is the last ascent of Virtue; here

All trial ends, and hope; here perfect joy,

With perfect righteousness, which to these heights Alone can rise, begins, above all fall.

And now on wing of holy ardour strong,
Hither ascends the stranger, borne upright;
For stranger he did seem, with curious eye
Of nice inspection round surveying all,

And at the feet alights of those that stood
His coming, who the hand of welcome gave,
And the embrace sincere of holy love;
And thus, with comely greeting kind, began.

Hail, brother! hail, thou son of happiness! Thou son beloved of God! welcome to heaven! To bliss that never fades! thy day is past Of trial, and of fear to fall. Well done, Thou good and faithful servant, enter now Into the joy eternal of thy Lord,

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