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Henry Vaughan - Mount Of Olives (I)
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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.
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