CANTO VI.
119
With Cruel Feuds my Altars they Prophane,
While Piety exalts her Voice in vain.
Thou then, to whom th' Oppress'd for Aid appeal,
Do Thou their sharp Religious Ulcers heal.
Save Me from splitting on these dangerous Shelves;
Save Them, Aristus, Save 'em from Themselves!
She spoke; the Hero leaves, and sinks in Air.
A while he lay in Extasie of Pray'r:
All cover'd o'er with Flames divinely bright,
He Own'd the lovely Virgin's Heavenly Light.
And now recover'd from the dazling View,
Convenes the Prelate and the Chanter too.
But, O my Muse, in this Sublimer Part
Aid my faint Spirit and Inspire my Art!
Unequal I, to sing the Man, or tell
How by his Mighty Art fierce Discord fell.
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