Eyes. 
  O’er Heav’ns wide Arch the routed Squadrons Rore,
  And transfix d Angels groan upon the Diamond-Floor. 
  Then, wheeling from Olympus Snowy top,
  Thro’ the scorch’d Air the giddy Leaders drop
  Down to th’ Abyss of their allotted Hell,
  And gaze on the lost Skies from whence they Fell.

    I see the Fiend, who tumbled from his Sphere
  Once by the Victor God, begins to fear
  New Lightning, and a Second Thunderer. 
  I hear him Yell, and argue with the Skies,
  Was’t not enough, Relentless Power! he cries,
  Despair of better state, and loss of Light
  Irreparable?  Was not loathsom Night
  And ever-during Dark sufficient Pain,
  But Man must Triumph, by our Fall to Reign,
  And Register the Fate which we Sustain? 
  Hence Hell is doubly Ours:  Almighty Name
  Hence, after Thine, we feel the Poet’s Flame
  And in Immortal Song renew Reviving shame.

  O Soul Seraphick, teach us how we may
  Thy Praise adapted to thy Worth display,
  For who can Merit more? or who enough can Pay? 
  Earth was unworthy Your aspiring View,
  Sublimer Objects were reserv’d for You. 
  Thence Nothing mean obtrudes on Your Design,
  Your Style is equal to Your Theme Divine,
  All Heavenly great, and more than Masculine. 
  Tho’ neither Vernal Bloom, nor Summer’s Rose
  Their op’ning Beauties could to Thee disclose. 
  Tho’ Nature’s curious Characters, which we
  Exactly view, were all eras’d to Thee. 
  Yet Heav’n stood Witness to Thy piercing sight,
  Below was Darkness, but Above was Light: 
  Thy Soul was Brightness all; nor would it stay
  In nether Night, and such a want of Day. 
  But wing’d aloft from sordid Earth retires
  To upper Glory, and its kindred-Fires: 
  Like an unhooded Hawk, who, loose to Prey,
  With open Eyes pursues th’ Ethereal Way. 
  There, Happy Soul, assume thy destin’d Place,
  And in yon Sphere begin thy glorious Race: 
  Or, if amongst the Laurel’d Heads there be
  A Mansion in the Skies reserv’d for Thee,
  There Ruler of thy Orb aloft appear,
  And rowl with Homer in the brightest Sphere;
  To whom Calliope has joyn’d thy Name,
  And recompens’d thy Fortunes with his Fame.

[Waller.]

    Tho’ She (forgive our freedom) sometimes Flows
  In Lines too Rugged, and akin to Prose. 
  Verse with a lively smoothness should be Wrote,
  When room is granted to the Speech and Thought. 
  Like some fair Planet, the Majestick Song
  Should gently move, and sparkle as it rowls along. 
  Like Waller’s Muse, who tho’ inchain’d by Rhime,
  Taught wondring Poets to keep even Chime. 
  His Praise inflames my breast, and should be shown
  In Numbers sweet and Courtly as his Own. 
  Who no unmanly Turns of Thought