But spare, O spare me, heaven! — My fainting soul
Sickens with bliss too great for mortal sense!
Come, o'er my limbs thy quickening waters roll,
Life-giving stream, and all thy balm dispense!
And thou, fair tree, the source of all our woes,
(That bloom'd so fatal erst in Eden's glade,
Transplanted since to heaven) thy friendly boughs
Extend, and wrap me in the brownest shade!
O veil me from the Lamb's too glorious sight,
From majesty's full blaze, insufferably bright!