[Lines on Milton]

On Religion’s holy hill
He built an altar, and the fire from heaven
Came down upon it. Round the growing flame
That filled the sense with fragrance gently rose
Soft sounds and [   ] and all the while were heard
Airs of high melody from solemn harp
Voice of angel in accordance sweet
Anon the trump of God, with dreadful blast
Rock’d all the mountain, on their flashing clouds
The silent cherubs trembled; undismayed
Stood the blind prophet—