And These Gems Of Heav'n, Her Starry

But Hail Thou Goddess Sage And Holy, Hail, Divinest Melancholy, Whose Saintly Visage Is Too Bright To Hit The Sense Of Human Sight, And Therefore To Our Weaker View O'erlaid With Black, Staid Wisdom's Hue.

The Hungry Sheep Look Up, And Are Not Fed.

For To Interpose A Little Ease, Let Our Frail Thoughts Dally With False Surmise.

Mammon, The Least Erected Spirit That Fell >from Heaven; For Ev'n In Heaven His Looks And Thoughts Were Always Downward Bent, Admiring More The Riches Of Heaven's Pavement, Trodden Gold, Than Aught Divine Or Holy Else Enjoy'd In Vision Beatific.

Ask For This Great Deliverer Now, And Find Him Eyeless In Gaza At The Mill With Slaves.