Of love divine the wonders she display’d;
Proved man immortal; show’d the source of joy
The grand tribunal raised; assign’d the bounds
Of human grief: in few, to close the whole,
The moral Muse has shadow’d out a sketch,
Though not in form, nor with a Raphael-stroke,
Of most our weakness needs believe, or do,
In this our land of travel, and of hope,
For peace on earth, or prospect of the skies. 539
What then remains? much! much! a mighty debt