Even there, by saints, the demons are outdone;
What these think wrong, our saints refine to right;
And kindly teach dull hell her own black arts;
Satan, instructed, o’er their morals smiles.—
But this, how strange to you, who know not man!
Has the least rumour of our race arrived?
Call’d here Elijah in his flaming car?
Pass’d by you the good Enoch, on his road
To those fair fields, whence Lucifer was hurl’d;
Who brush’d, perhaps, your sphere in his descent, 1820