 | Poems on several occasions |  |
Who can excuse the Poet, that in spite
Of Scripture says, “Whatever is is right;”
That matter is an attribute of God,
From purest æther to the grossest clod;
Th'anima mundi, or in language foul,
“Whose body nature is, and God the soul.”
Tho' sweet his numbers, who can reconcile
Such gross descriptions to the Christian stile?
Thus sung the Poets, with precarious hope,
From Aristotle to poetick Pope.
Of Scripture says, “Whatever is is right;”
That matter is an attribute of God,
From purest æther to the grossest clod;
Th'anima mundi, or in language foul,
“Whose body nature is, and God the soul.”
Tho' sweet his numbers, who can reconcile
Such gross descriptions to the Christian stile?
Thus sung the Poets, with precarious hope,
From Aristotle to poetick Pope.
| Poems on several occasions | |