Knew I the name devout archangels use, 597 Devout archangels should the name enjoy, By me unrivall'd; thousands more sublime, None half so dear as that which, though unspoke, Still glows at heart: O how omnipotence Is lost in love! Thou great Philanthropist! Father of angels! but the friend of man! 603 Like Jacob, fondest of the younger born! Thou, who didst save him, snatch the smoking brand From out the flames, and quench it in thy blood! How art thou pleased, by bounty to distress! To make us groan beneath our gratitude, Too big for birth! to favour, and confound; To challenge, and to distance all return! 610 Of lavish love stupendous heights to soar, And leave praise panting in the distant vale! Thy right, too great, defrauds thee of thy due; And sacrilegious our sublimest song. But since the naked will obtains thy smile, Beneath this monument of praise unpaid, And future life symphonious to my strain, (That noblest hymn to heaven!) for ever lie Entomb'd my fear of death! and every fear, The dread of every evil, but thy frown. 620 Whom see I yonder, so demurely smile? Laughter a labour, and might break their rest. Ye quietists, in homage to the skies! Serene! of soft address! who mildly make An unobtrusive tender of your hearts, Abhorring violence! who halt indeed; But, for the blessing, wrestle not with Heaven! Think you my song too turbulent? too warm? Are passions, then, the Pagans of the soul? Reason alone baptized? alone ordain'd 630 To touch things sacred? Oh for warmer still! 631 Guilt chills my zeal, and age benumbs my powers; Oh for an humbler heart, and prouder song! Thou, my much-injured theme! with that soft eye, Which melted o'er doom'd Salem, deign to look Compassion to the coldness of my breast; And pardon to the winter in my strain. O ye cold-hearted, frozen, formalists! On such a theme, 'tis impious to be calm; Passion is reason, transport temper, here. 640 Shall Heaven, which gave us ardour, and has shown Her own for man so strongly, not disdain What smooth emollients in theology, Recumbent virtue's downy doctors preach, That prose of piety, a lukewarm praise? Rise odours sweet from incense uninflamed? Devotion, when lukewarm, is undevout; But when it glows, its heat is struck to heaven; To human hearts her golden harps are strung; High heaven's orchestra chants amen to man. 650 Hear I, or dream I hear, their distant strain, Sweet to the soul, and tasting strong of heaven, Soft-wafted on celestial pity's plume, Through the vast spaces of the universe, To cheer me in this melancholy gloom? Oh, when will death (now stingless), like a friend, Admit me of their choir? Oh, when will death