Of colour, weight, and heat, poured all together,

Would quite confound distinction, yet stand off

In difference so mighty.

Shakspere.

Ye Sacred Writings! on whose antique leaves

The wondrous deeds of heaven recorded lie,

Say, what might be the cause, that mercy heaves

The dust of sin above the starry sky,

And lets it not in dust and ashes fly?

Could Justice be of sin so over-wooed,