thou the theme intoxicates my song?
Am I too warm? — Too warm I cannot be.
I loved him much; but now I love him more.
Like birds, whose beauties languish, half conceal'd,
Till, mounted on the wing, their glossy plumes
Expanded shine with azure, green, and gold;
How blessings brighten as they take their flight!
His flight  took; his upward flight,
If ever soul ascended. Had he dropp'd,
(That eagle genius!) O, had he let fall
One feather as he flew, I then had wrote
What friends might flatter, prudent foes forbear,
Rivals scarce damn, and  reprieve.
Yet what I can, I must: it were profane
To quench a glory lighted at the skies,
And cast in shadows his illustrious close.
Strange, the theme most affecting, most sublime,
Momentous most to man, should sleep unsung!
And yet it sleeps, by genius unawaked,
Paynim or Christian, to the blush of wit.
Man's highest triumph, man's profoundest fall,
The death-bed of the just, is yet undrawn
By mortal hand; it merits a Divine!
Angels should paint it, angels ever there;
There, on a post of honour, and of joy.