Mount Of Olives (I)

By Henry Vaughan

1.

SWEET, sacred hill ! on whose fair brow

My Saviour sate, shall I allow

              Language to love,

And idolize some shade, or grove,

Neglecting thee ? such ill-plac'd wit,

Conceit, or call it what you please,

              Is the brain's fit,

              And mere disease.

2.

Cotswold and Cooper's both have met

With learn褠swains, and echo yet

              Their pipes and wit ;

But thou sleep'st in a deep neglect,

Untouch'd by any ; and what need

The sheep bleat thee a silly lay,

              That heard'st both reed

              And sheepward play ?

3.

Yet if poets mind thee well,

They shall find thou art their hill,

              And fountain too.

Their Lord with thee had most to do ;

He wept once, walk'd whole nights on thee :

And from thence?His suff'rings ended?

              Unto glory

              Was attended.

4.

Being there, this spacious ball

Is but His narrow footstool all ;

              And what we think

Unsearchable, now with one wink

He doth comprise ; but in this air

When He did stay to bear our ill

              And sin, this hill

              Was then His Chair.