Philomela :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ah! Bright Unknown! you know not what you ask;
Angels wou'd bend beneath th' unequal Task.
Were that bless'd World disclos'd, 'twou'd seem so Fair,
Who wou'd not leap Life's Barriers to be there?
Yet see a Glimpse, all, Heav'n permits to see,
And learn the rest from Faith and Extasy.

The Paradise of God, those happy Seats which cost
Far more, alas, than that fair Eden we have lost,
Exceeds luxuriant Fancy's richest Dress,
And Beggars Rime and Numbers self t'express.
No,—were we lost in that Primæval Grove,
Where Father Adam with his New-born Bride

Walk'd careless, walk'd and lov'd, nor Want, nor Sin,
Nor jealous Rage, nor curst tormenting Hopes
Their Sacred Verge approaching; cou'd we pierce,
As the blind Bard, with intellectual Sight,
Thro' those first happy Mortals Sylvan Shade,
Thro' clust'ring Vines, whose swelling Purple Grapes
With gen'rous Juice invited the bless'd Pair
To taste, nor fear to die; where all the Springs,
That from some easy Mountains mossy Side,
Or hoary Rock ran gently murmuring;
A thousand Flowers upon the bending Banks,
A thousand Birds upon the fragrant Trees,
And Eve herself all smiling join'd the Quite,
With blissful Hymns of chaste and holy Love.
Were these and more united to compose
A Poet's Heav'n, to the true Heav'n 'twou'd be
A barren Wilderness, nay worse, a World.

Not Reason's self, a Ray of the Divine
Off-spring, and Friend of God, when manacled

In sinful mortal Mold, altho' it trace,
No Sister Truth thro' each Dædalian Maze,
And builds on Sense with well poiz'd Argument,
Not That can tell us, what we there shall see,
Or have, or know, or do, or ever be.
Nay, tho' with nobler Faith's more perfect Glass,
We look beyond the Crystal starry Worlds,
We know but Part, sunk in our darksome selves,
And from Life's Dungeon wish the glim'ring Light:
Coasters of Heav'n we beat along the Shore,
Some Creeks and Land-marks found, but know no more.
The Inland Country's undiscover'd still,
The glorious City of th' eternal King,
Yet of Celestial Growth we bear away,
Some rich immortal Fruit, Joy, Peace and Love,
Knowledge and Praise, Vision and pure Delight,
Rivers of Bliss, aye-dwelling from the Throne
Of the most High, exhaustless Fund of Light.
There, there, is Heav'n, 'tis He who makes it so,
The Soul can hold no more, for God is all,

He only equals its capacious Grasp,
He only over fills to Spaces Infinite.
Ah! who can follow?—That shall only those
Who with intrepid Breasts the World oppose.
Tear out the glitt'ring Snake, tho' ne'er so close it twine,
And part with Mortal Joys, for Joys Divine.

Milton.