So the pure limpid Stream &c

So when some Angel, by divine Command,

With rising Tempests shakes a guilty Land,

(Such as of late o'er pale Britannia past)

Calm and serene he drives the furious Blast,

And, pleas'd th' Almighty's Orders to perform,

Rides in the Whirlwind, and directs the Storm.

It must be so.— Plato, thou reason'st well.

Else whence this pleasing Hope, this fond Desire,

This Longing after an Eternity. Or whence this secret Dread,

Of falling into Nought. Why shrinks the Soul

Back on her self, and startles at Destruction.

'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us;

'Tis Heav'n itself that points out an Hereafter, &c