'Twas sure some noble being left the sphere,
Which deigned a little to inhabit here,
And can't be said to die, but disappear.
Or if she mortal was, and meant to show
The greater skill by being made below,
Sure Heaven preserved her by the fell uncursed,
To tell how all the sex were formed at first.
Never did yet so much divinity
In such a small compendium crowded lie.
By her we credit what the learnèd tell,
That many angels on one point can dwell.
More damnèd fiends did not in Mary rest,
Than lodged of blessed spirits in her breast;
Religion dawned so early in her mind,
You'd think her saint whilst in the womb enshrined;
Nay, that bright ray which did her temples paint,
Proclaimed her clearly, while alive, a saint.
Scarce had she learned to lisp religion's name,
Ere she by her example preached the same,
And taught her cradle like the pulpit to reclaim.
No action did within her practice fall
Which for the atonement of a blush could call;
No words of hers e'er greeted any ear,
But what a dying saint, confessed, might hear.
Her thoughts had scarcely ever sullied been
By the least footsteps of original sin.
Her life did still as much devotion breathe,
As others do at their last gasp in death.
Hence, on her tomb, of her let not be said,
So long she lived, but thus—So long she prayed!
PARAPHRASE UPON THE 137TH PSALM.
i
Where great Euphrates with a mighty current flows,
