Sweet, 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-placed 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 learned swains, and echo yet Their pipes and wit; But thou sleep'st in a deep neglect Untouched 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, walked 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FOR G. by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON THE BELEAGUERED CITY by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW MANASSAS [JULY 21, 1861] by CATHERINE ANNE WARFIELD THE WOLF AND SHEPHERDS; A FABLE by JAMES BEATTIE THE WORST OF IT by ROBERT BROWNING FINIS by ELLEN MAGRATH CARROLL |