The Athenians Answer.

AH! Bright Unknown! you know not what you ask! 
Angels wou'd bend beneath the unequal Task. 
Were that bless'd World disclos'd, 'twou'd seem so fair,
 Who wou'd not leap Lifes Barriers to be there? 
Yet see a Glimpse, all, Heav'n permits to see,
 And learn the rest from Faith and Extasie. 

The Paradise of God, those happy seats which cost
 Far more than that fair Eden we have lost;
 Exceeds luxuriant Fancies richest dress,
 And Beggers Rhime and Numbers self t' express. 
— No, were we lost in that primaeval Grove
 Where Father Adam with his New-born Bride
 Walkt careless, walkt and lov'd, nor Want, nor Sin,
 Nor jealous Rage, nor curst tormenting Hopes
 Their Sacred Verge approaching cou'd we pierce
 As the blind Bard, with intellectual sight
 Thro' those first happy Mortals Sylvan shade,
 Thro'clust'ring Vines whose swelling Purple Grapes
 With generous Juice invited the bless'd Pair
 To taste, nor fear to dye; were all the Springs
 That from some easie Mountains mossy side
 Or hoary Rock ran gently murmuring,
 A thousand Flour's upon the bending Banks,
 A thousand Birds upon the fragrant Trees,
 And Eve her self all smiling ioyn'd the Quire,
 With blissful Hymns of chast and holy Love
 Were these and more united to compose
 A Poets Heaven to the true Heaven 'twou'd be
 A Barren Wilderness, nay worse, a World. 
— Not Reasons self, a Ray of the divine
 Off-spring, and Friend of God, when manacled
 In sinful mortal mold, altho' it trace,
 No Sister Truth thro' each Dedalean maze,
 And builds on Sense with well poiz'd Argument,
 Not that can tell us what we there shall see,
 Or have or know, or do, or ever be. 
Nay tho' with nobler Faiths more perfect Glass,
 We look beyond the Christal starry Worlds,
 We know but part, sunk in our darksom selves,
 And from Life's dungeon wish the glim'ring Light,
 Coasters of Heav'n we beat along the shore,
 Some Creeks and Landmarks found, but know no more. 
The Inland Country's undiscover d still,
 The glorious City of th' eternal King,
 Yet of coelestial Growth we bear away,
 Some rich immortal Fruit, Joy, Peace and Love,
 Knowledge and Praise, Vision and pure Delight,
 Rivers of Bliss, ay-dwelling from the Throne
 Of the most high, exhaustless Fund of Light. 
There, there is Heav'n, 'tis he who makes it so,
 The Soul can hold no more, for God is all,
 He only equalls its capacious Grasp,
 He only o're fills to spaces infinite,
 Ah! who can follow? — That shall only those
 Who with intrepid Breasts the World oppose. 
Tear out the glitt'ring Snake, tho' ne're so close it twine,
 And part with mortal Ioys for Ioys Divine.