Page:The Works of Alexander Pope (1717).djvu/467

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MISCELLANIES.
431
Thy voice I seem in ev'ry hymn to hear,With ev'ry bead I drop too soft a tear.When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll,And swelling organs lift the rising soul,One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight,Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight:In seas of flame my plunging soul is drown'd,While altars blaze, and angels tremble round. While prostrate here in humble grief I lie,Kind, virtuous drops just gath'ring in my eye,While praying, trembling, in the dust I roll,And dawning grace is op'ning on my soul:Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art!Oppose thyself to Heav'n; dispute my heart;Come, with one glance of those deluding eyesBlot out each bright idea of the skies;Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears;Take back my fruitless penitence and pray'rs;Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode;Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God!

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