Thro' the scorch'd Air the giddy Leaders drop
Down to th' Abyss of their allotted Hell,
And gaze on the lost Skies from whence they Fell.

I see the Fiend, who tumbled from his Sphere
Once by the _Victor God_, begins to fear
New Lightning, and a Second Thunderer.
I hear him Yell, and argue with the Skies,
_Was't not enough, Relentless Power_! he cries,
_Despair of better state, and loss of Light
Irreparable? Was not loathsom Night
And ever-during Dark sufficient Pain,
But Man must Triumph, by our Fall to Reign,
And Register the Fate which we Sustain?
Hence Hell is doubly Ours: Almighty Name
Hence, after Thine, we feel the_ Poet's _Flame
And in Immortal Song renew Reviving shame_.

O Soul _Seraphick_, teach us how we may
Thy Praise adapted to thy Worth display,
For who can Merit more? or who enough can Pay?
Earth was unworthy Your aspiring View,
Sublimer Objects were reserv'd for You.
Thence Nothing mean obtrudes on Your Design,
Your Style is equal to Your Theme Divine,
All Heavenly great, and more than Masculine.
Tho' neither Vernal Bloom, nor Summer's Rose
Their op'ning Beauties could to Thee disclose.
Tho' Nature's curious Characters, which we
Exactly view, were all eras'd to Thee.