Is it, in Heav'n, a crime to love too well? To bear too tender, or too firm a heart, To act a lover's or a Roman's part? Is there no bright reversion in the sky, For those who greatly think, or bravely die?

What beck'ning ghost, along the moonlight shade Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?

Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes; The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods.

He best can paint them who shall feel them most.