Mount Of Olives (I)

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.