Passa Per Gli Occhi. Swift Through The Eyes Unto The Heart Within All Lovely Forms That Thrall Our Spirit Stray; So Smooth And Broad And Open Is The Way That Thousands And Not Hundreds Enter In. Burdened With Scruples And Weighed Down With Sin, These Mortal Beauties Fill Me With Dismay; Nor Find I One That Doth Not Strive To Stay My Soul On Transient Joy, Or Lets Me Win The Heaven I Yearn For. Lo, When Erring Love-- Who Fills The World, Howe'Er His Power We Shun, Else Were The World A Grave And We Undone-- Assails The Soul, If Grace Refuse To Fan Our Purged Desires And Make Them Soar Above, What Grief It Were To Have Been Born A Man!