Laws would be useless which rude nature awe; Love, changing nature, would prevent the law; Tigers and lions into dens we thrust, But milder creatures with their freedom trust. Devils are chain'd, and tremble; but the Spouse No force but love, nor bond but bounty, knows. Men (whom we now so fierce and dangerous see) Would guardian angels to each other be; Such wonders can this mighty love perform, Vultures to doves, wolves into lambs transform! 230 Love what Isaiah prophesied can do,[1] Exalt the valleys, lay the mountains low, Humble the lofty, the dejected raise, Smooth and make straight our rough and crooked ways. Love, strong as death, and like it, levels all; With that possess'd, the great in title fall; Themselves esteem but equal to the least, Whom Heaven with that high character has bless'd. This love, the centre of our union, can Alone bestow complete repose on man; 240 Tame his wild appetite, make inward peace, And foreign strife among the nations cease. No martial trumpet should disturb our rest, Nor princes arm, though to subdue the East, Where for the tomb so many heroes (taught By those that guided their devotion) fought. Thrice happy we, could we like ardour have To gain His love, as they to win His grave! Love as He loved! A love so unconfined, With arms extended, would embrace mankind. 250 Self-love would cease, or be dilated, when We should behold as many selfs as men; All of one family, in blood allied, His precious blood, that for our ransom died. [1] 'Prophesied can do': Isaiah xl. 4. CANTO VI. Though the creation (so divinely taught!) Prints such a lively image on our thought, That the first spark of new-created light, From Chaos struck, affects our present sight: Yet the first Christians did esteem more bless'd The day of rising, than the day of rest, 260 That every week might new occasion give, To make His triumph in their mem'ry live. Then let our Muse compose a sacred charm, To keep His blood among us ever warm, And singing as the blessed do above, With our last breath dilate this flame of love. But on so vast a subject who can find Words that may reach th'idea of his mind? Our language fails; or, if it could supply, What mortal thought can raise itself so high? 270 Despairing here, we might abandon art, And only hope to have it in our heart. But though we find this sacred task too hard, Yet the design, th'endeavour, brings reward. The contemplation does suspend our woe, And makes a truce with all the ills we know. As Saul's afflicted spirit from the sound Of David's harp, a present solace found;[1] So, on this theme while we our Muse engage, No wounds are felt, of fortune or of age. 280 On divine love to meditate is peace, And makes all care of meaner things to cease.