JOHN MILTON
Harping in loud and solemn quire,
With unexpressive notes to Heav'ns new-born Heir.
Such musick (as 'tis said) Before was never made,
But when of old the sons of morning sung, While the Creator Great His constellations set,
And the well-ballanc't world on hinges hung, And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltring waves their oozy channel keep.
Ring out ye Crystall sphcars, Once bless our human cars,
(If ye have power to touch our senses so) And let your silver chime Move in melodious time,
And let the Base of Heav'ns deep Organ blow And with your ninefold harmony Make up full consort to th'Angelike symphony.
For if such holy Song Enwarp our fancy long
Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold, And spcckl'd vanity Will sicken soon and die,
And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould, And Hell it self will pasb away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.
Yea Truth, and Justice then Will down return to men,
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