The poems of George Daniel ... From the original mss. in the British Museum: Hitherto unprinted. Edited, with introduction, notes, and illustrations, portrait, &c. By the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart: In four volumes |
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 | The poems of George Daniel |  |
ODE XXXVI.
[Huge weight of Earth and Sin]
1
Huge weight of Earth and Sin,Which clogs my lab'ring Thoughts in their vprise;
I am not wise
Enough, to breake my Chaine, or cast my Skin,
With prudent Adders. Could I slip
From my old Slime, how would I skip!
In my new Robes of Innocence, and veiwe
Things in their Causes, absolute and true.
2
Then, in a scornfull heatAnd brave Disdaine, enfranchis'd would I flye,
To kisse that Skye,
Wee now admire; and find a fixéd Seat
79
Th' attractive Earth, I need not feare;
But move without my Load, and, at one Step,
As eas'ly mount the orbe as downward leape.
3
There could I see and scorneThe busie toyle of Mankind in their waies:
Their Nights and Dayes
How fruitles to the End; as were they borne
To satisfye their Lust and Pride,
To their owne Sence diversifyed;
And added nothing to the gen'rall frame,
But a meer thing, put in, to have a name.
4
How everie other ThingApplies its part, and has a Motion!
Which (though vnknowne)
Doubtles, it doth aright performe; and bring
Its little to maintaine the whole:
Man onlie, who should have a Soule
More noble and refin'd, by Nature made
Surveiour of the worke, doth nothing Adde.
5
Diverted from the charge,Entrusted to him meerly, as beyond,
In face and mind,
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As all the orbes, and wider too;
Truth (whose vast Circle none can know)
Was onlie bigger; and the Light of Truth,
Met full and radiant here, from North to South.
6
Thus once; but now, alas,The most despiséd obiect of the world;
From all this hurl'd;
A Slave to Passion and his owne disgrace;
Baited by Follie, and Surprised
In the great Snare, which Hee devised,
Of pleasant vanitie; and all the boast
Hee had of Dignitie and worth is lost.
7
Poor Sand of Earth! how lostTo thy owne ruine, art thou, in thy will;
And plotting Still
Further destruction! as though all were lost
Of thy Creation, in thy Selfe;
Now made a wracke, vpon the Shelfe
Of Ignorance. Hopest there thy selfe to Save
From vtter Death, and the devouring wave?
| The poems of George Daniel | |