When to Your Native Heav'n You shall repair,
And with Your Presence crown the Blessings there;
Your Lute may wind it's Strings but little higher,
To tune their Notes to that immortal Quire.
Your Art is perfect here: Your Numbers do,
More than our Books, make the rude Atheist know,
That there's a Heav'n, by what He hears below.