What art thou? From what causes dost thou spring? 
Oh! Musick thou Divine misterious thing? 
Let me, let me but know, and knowing give me Voice to sing? 
Art thou the warmth in Spring, that Zephire breathes? 
Painting the meads, and whistling through the leaves. 
The happy, happy Season that all grief exiles, 
When God is Pleas'd and the Creation Smiles? 
Or art thou Love, that mind to mind imparts, 
the endless concord of agreeing hearts? 
Or art thou Friendship, yet a nobler Flame, 
that can a dearer way make Souls the same? 
Or art thou rather which do all transcend, 
the Centre which at last the Blest ascend, 
the seat where Hallelujahs never end; 
Corporeal Eyes won't let us clearly see, 
but either thou art Heav'n, or Heav'n is thee.