| |
|
See how the
orient dew,
Shed from the bosom of the morn
Into
the blowing roses,
Yet careless of its mansion new,
For the clear region where 'twas born
Round in its
self incloses,
And in its little globe's extent
Frames as it can its native element.
How it the
purple flow'r does slight,
Scarce touching where it
lies,
But gazing back upon the skies,
Shines with
a mournful light;
Like its own tear,
Because so
long divided from the sphere.
Restless it rolls and
unsecure,
Trembling lest it grow impure,
Till the
warm sun pity its pain,
And to the skies exhale it
back again.
So the soul, that drop, that ray
Of
the clear fountain of eternal day,
Could it within
the human flow'r be seen,
Rememb'ring still its
former height,
Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms
green;
And, recollecting its own light,
Does, in
its pure and circling thoughts, express
The greater
Heaven in an Heaven less.
In how coy a figure wound
Every way it turns away:
So the world excluding
round,
Yet receiving in the day.
Dark beneath, but
bright above:
Here disdaining, there in love.
How
loose and easy hence to go:
How girt and ready to
ascend.
Moving but on a point below,
It all about
does upwards bend.
Such did the manna's sacred dew
distil;
White and intire, though congealed and chill.
Congealed on earth: but does, dissolving, run
Into
the glories of th' Almighty Sun.
|
|
|
