The Soul.

HOw vain a thing is Man, whose noblest part,
That Soul wth through the World doth come,
Traverses Heav'n, finds out the depths of Art,
Yet is so ignorant at home

In every Brook our Mirrour we can find
Reflections of our face to be;
But a true Optick to present our Mind
We hardly get, and darkly see.

Yet in the search after our selves we run,
Actions and Causes we survey;
And when the weary Chase is almost done,
Then from our Quest we slip away.

'Tis strange and sad, that since we do believe
We have a Soul must never die,
There are so few that can a Reason give
How it obtains that Life, or why.

I wonder not to find those that know most,
Profess so much their Ignorance;
Since in their own Souls greatest Wits are lost,
And of themselves have scarce a glance.

But somewhat sure doth here obscurely lie,
That above Dross would fain advance,
And pants and catches at Eternity,
As 'twere its own Inheritance.

A Soul self-mov'd, which can dilate, contract,
Pierces and judges things unseen:
But this gross heap of Matter cannot act,
Unless impulsed from within.

Distance and Quantity, to Bodies due,
The state of Souls cannot admit;
And all the Contraries which Nature knew
Meet there, nor hurt themselves nor it.

God never made a Body so bright and clean,
Which Good and Evil could discern:
What these words Honesty and Honour mean,
The Soul alone knows how to learn.

Aud though 'tis true she is imprison'd here,
Yet hath she Notions of her own,
Which Sense doth onely jog, awake, and clear,
But cannot at the first make known.

The Soul her own felicity hath laid,
And independent on the Sense
Sees the weak terrours which the World invade
With pity or with negligence.

So unconcern'd she lives, so much above
The Rubbish of a clotty Jail,
That nothing doth her Energy improve
So much as when those structures fail.

She's then a substance subtile, strong and pure,
So immaterial and refin'd,
As speaks her from the Body's fate secure,
As wholly of a diff'rent kind.

Religion for reward in vain would look,
Vertue were doom'd to misery,
All actions were like bubbles in a brook,
Were it not for Mortality.

And as that Conquerour who Millions spent
Thought it too mean to give a Mite;
So the World's Judge can never be content
To bestow less then Infinite.

Treason against Eternal Majesty
Must have eternal Justice too;
And since unbounded Love did satisfie,
He will unbounded Mercy shew.

It is our narrow thoughts shorten these things,
By their companion Flesh inclin'd;
Which feeling its own weakness gladly brings
The same opinion to the Mind.

We stifle our own Sun, and live in Shade;
But where its beams do once appear,
They make that person of himself afraid,
And to his own acts most severe.

For ways to sin close, and our breasts disguise
From outward search, we soon may find:
But who can his own Soul bribe or surprise,
Or sin without a sting behind?

He that commands himself is more a Prince
Then he who Nations keeps in aw;
And those who yield to what their Souls convince,
Shall never need another Law.