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146
Fill their Seven Vials with salutary wrath,
To sickly Nature more medicinal
That what soft balm the weeping good man pours100
Into the lone despoiled trav'ller's wounds!
Thus from th' Elect, regenerate thro' faith,
Pass the dark Passions and what thirsty Cares
Drink up the spirit and the dim regards
Self-center. Lo they vanish! or acquire 105
New names, new features—by supernal grace
Enrob'd with Light, and naturaliz'd in Heaven.
As when a Shepherd on a vernal morn
Thro' some thick fog creeps tim'rous with slow foot,
Darkling he fixes on th' immediate road 110
His downward eye: all else of fairest kind
Hid or deform'd. But lo, the bursting Sun!
