Henry Vaughan

Here you will find the Poem Mount Of Olives (I) of poet Henry Vaughan

Mount Of Olives (I)

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. 
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 ? 

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. 

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.