Canto I

Poets we prize, when in their verse we findSome great employment of a worthy mind.Angels have been inquisitive to knowThe secret which this oracle does show.What was to come, Isaiah did declare,Which she describes as if she had been there;Had seen the wounds, which, to the reader's view,She draws so lively that they bleed anew.As ivy thrives which on the oak takes hold,So, with the prophet's, may her lines grow old!If they should die, who can the world forgive,(Such pious lines!) when wanton Sappho's live?Who with His breath His image did inspire,Expects it should foment a nobler fire;Not love which brutes as well as men may know,But love like His, to whom that breath we owe.Verse so design'd, on that high subject wrote,Is the perfection of an ardent thought;The smoke which we from burning incense raise,When we complete the sacrifice of praise.In boundless verse the fancy soars too highFor any object but the Deity.What mortal can with Heaven pretend to shareIn the superlatives of wise and fair?A meaner subject when with these we grace,A giant's habit on a dwarf we place.Sacred should be the product of our Muse,Like that sweet oil, above all private use,On pain of death forbidden to be made,But when it should be on the altar laid.Verse shows a rich inestimable veinWhen, dropp'd from heaven, 'tis thither sent again.

Of bounty 'tis that He admits our praise,Which does not Him, but us that yield it, raise;For as that angel up to heaven did rise,Borne on the flame of Manoah's sacrifice,So, wing'd with praise, we penetrate the sky;Teach clouds and stars to praise Him as we fly;The whole creation, (by our fall made groan!)His praise to echo, and suspend their moan.For that He reigns, all creatures should rejoice,And we with songs supply their want of voice.The church triumphant, and the church below,In songs of praise their present union show;Their joys are full; our expectation long;In life we differ, but we join in song.Angels and we, assisted by this art,May sing together, though we dwell apart.Thus we reach heaven, while vainer poems mustNo higher rise than winds may lift the dust.From that they spring; this from His breath that gave,To the first dust, th'immortal soul we have;His praise well sung (our great endeavour here),Shakes off the dust, and makes that breath appear.