ALOFT, O Soul! and make thy soaring plumes
Outreach the loathsome airs and noisome fumes
That spring from sordid earth: come, come, and see
Thy birth, and learn to know thy pedigree.
What, wast thou made of clay? or dost thou owe
Homage to earth? Say, is thy bliss below?
Dost know thy beauty? Dost thou not excel?
Can the creation yield a parallel?
The world hath not a glass to represent
Thy shape, and shall a dirty element
Bewitch thee? Think, is not thy birth most high?
Blown from the mouth of all the Trinity,
The breath of all-creating Jove, the best
Of all his works; thee, thee of all the rest
He chose to be his picture: where can I
But in myself see immortality
'Mongst all his earthly creatures? Thou art chief
Of all his works: and shall the world turn thief,
And steal away thy love? Wer't not for thee
The heaven-aspiring mountain should not be;
The heavens should have no glistering star, no light,
No sun to rule the day, no moon the night;
The globe had been ('twas not the Maker's will
To make it for itself) a chaos still.
Thou art God's priestly Aaron, to present
The creatures' service, while they give assent
By serving thee: why, then's the world thy rest?
'Tis but thy servant's servant, at the best.
The world is for our bodies; they for none
But for our souls, our souls for God alone.
What madness then for men, of such a birth,
To grovel all their days on dunghill earth,
Still hunting after (with an eager scent)
An object which can never give content.
For, what contentment in the world can lie,
That's only constant in inconstancy?
It ebbs and flows each minute: thou may'st brag,
This day, of thousands, and to-morrow beg:
The greatest wealth is subject so to reel-
The globe is placed on Fortune's tottering wheel.
As when the gladding sun begins to show,
And scatter all his golden beams below;
A churlish cloud soon meets him in the way,
And sads the beauty of the smiling day;
Or as a stately ship awhile behaves
Herself most bravely on the slumbering waves;
And like a swan sails nimbly in her pride,
The helpful winds concording with the tide
To mend her pace-but, by and by, the wind,
The fretful seas, the heavens, and all, combin'd
Against this bragging bark—O how they fling
Her corkey sides to heaven, and then they bring
Her back; she, that erewhile did sail so brave,
Cutting the floods, is toss'd with every wave:
Just so the waving world gives joy and sorrow—
This day a Croesus, and a Job to-morrow.
How often have I seen the miser bless
Himself in wealth, and count it for no less
Than his adored god: straight comes a frown
Flying from unhappy fate, and whirleth down.
Him and his heaps of gold; and all that prize
Is lost, which he but now did idolize.
But grant the world (as never 'twill) to be
A thing most sure, most full of constancy;
What is thy wealth unless thy God doth bless
Thy store, and turn it to a happiness?
What, though thy table be completely spread
With far-fetch'd dainties, and the purest bread
That fruitful earth can yield? All this may be:
If thou no stomach hast, what's all to thee?
What, though thy habitation should excel
In beauty, and were Eden's parallel?
Thou, being pester'd with some dire disease,
How can thy stately dwelling give thee ease?
Thy joys will turn thy grief; thy freedom, thrall;
Unless thy God above doth sweeten all:
When thou, poor soul, liest ready to depart,
And hears't thy conscience snarling at thine heart,
Though heaps of gold should in thy coffers lie,
And all thy worthless friends stand whining by;
'Tis none, 'tis none of these, can give thee health,
But thou must languish in the midst of wealth.
Then cease, thou madman, and pursue no more
The world.-
Thou catchest shadows, labour'st in thy dreams,
And thirst'st amongst imaginary streams.
ON A FAIR HOUSE HAVING AN ILL PASSAGE TO IT.
A HOUSE to which the builders did impart
The full perfection of their curious art;
Most bravely furnish'd, in whose rooms did lie
Footcloths of velvet and of tapestry,
I wonder'd at (as, who could not but do it?)
To see so rough, so hard a passage to it:
So, Lord, I know thy heaven's a glorious place,
Wherein the beauty of thy glistering face
Inlightens all; thou in the walls dost fix
The jasper and the purest sardonyx;
Thy gates are pearls, and every door beset
With sapphires, emeralds, and the chrysolet;
Each subject wears a crown; the which he brings
And casts it down to thee, the King of kings:
But, why's the way so thorny? 'tis great pity,
The passage is no wider to thy city;
Poor Daniel through his den, and Shadrach 's driven
With his associates through the fire, to heaven.
But yet we can't complain: we may recal
The time to mind, when there was none at all.
'Twas Christ that made this way, and shall we be-
Who are his servants-far more nice than he ?
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