Enough kind Heaven! to purpose I have liv’d, And all my Sighs and Languishments surviv’d. My Stars in vain their sullen influence have shed, Round my till now Unlucky Head: I pardon all the Silent Hours I’ve griev’d, My Weary Nights, and Melancholy Days; When no Kind Power my Pain Reliev’d, I lose you all, ye sad Remembrancers, I lose you all in New-born Joys, Joys that will dissipate my Falling Tears. The Mighty Soul of _Rochester’s_ reviv’d, Enough Kind Heaven to purpose I have liv’d. I saw the Lovely _Phantom_, no Disguise, Veil’d the blest Vision from my Eyes, ‘Twas all o’re _Rochester_ that pleas’d and did surprize. Sad as the Grave I sat by Glimmering Light, Such as attends Departing Souls by Night. Pensive as absent Lovers left alone, Or my poor Dove, when his Fond Mate was gone. Silent as Groves when only Whispering Gales, Sigh through the Rushing Leaves, As softly as a Bashful Shepherd Breaths, To his Lov’d Nymph his Amorous Tales. So dull I was, scarce Thought a Subject found, Dull as the Light that gloom’d around; When lo the Mighty Spirit appear’d, All Gay, all Charming to my sight; My Drooping Soul it Rais’d and Cheer’d, And cast about a Dazling Light. In every part there did appear, The Great, the God-like _Rochester_, His Softness all, his Sweetness everywhere. It did advance, and with a Generous Look, To me Addrest, to worthless me it spoke: With the same wonted Grace my Muse it prais’d, With the same Goodness did my Faults Correct; And careful of the Fame himself first rais’d, Obligingly it School’d my loose Neglect. The soft, the moving Accents soon I knew The gentle Voice made up of Harmony; Through the Known Paths of my glad Soul it flew; I knew it straight, it could no others be, ‘Twas not Alied but very very he. So the All-Ravisht Swain that hears The wondrous Musick of the Sphears, For ever does the grateful Sound retain, Whilst all his Oaten Pipes and Reeds, The Rural Musick of the Groves and Meads, Strive to divert him from the Heavenly Song in vain. He hates their harsh and Untun’d Lays, Which now no more his Soul and Fancy raise. But if one Note of the remembred Air He chance again to hear, He starts, and in a transport cries,--_’.is there._ He knows it all by that one little taste, And by that grateful Hint remembers all the rest. Great, Good, and Excellent, by what new way Shall I my humble Tribute pay, For this vast Glory you my Muse have done, For this great Condescension shown! So Gods of old sometimes laid by Their Awful Trains of Majesty, And chang’d ev’n Heav’n a while for Groves and Plains, And to their Fellow-Gods preferr’d the lowly Swains,