{ Like angels love to humane seed enclined,
{ It starts a giant, and exalts the kind.
'Tis spirit seen, whose fiery atoms roul,
So brightly fierce, each syllable's a soul.
'Tis miniature of man, but he's all heart;
'Tis what the world would be, but wants the art;
To whom even the Phanatics altars raise,
Bow in their own despite, and grin your praise.
As if a Milton from the dead arose,
Filed off the rust, and the right party chose.