The Flight.
I
No wonder, Soul, thou so admir'st a Verse,
And countst thy self in its Possession brave;
For 'tis, what e're thou canst desire to have,
On this side Heav'n, but more to make, than to rehearse.
II
'Tis th' end of Preaching, Loves best Exercise,
The Quintessence of Prayer, Praises refin'd;
A Change exstatic into th' Heav'nly Mind,
And on whose soaring Wings above the World I rise.
III
O, could I always stay where 't first sets me!
How naked looking down would th' World appear!
Its Joys how empty, and how vain its Fear;
Another flight would make me leave Mortality.
IV
For as the sealed Dove so high does towre;
That i'th' pure Air at last it flying dies;
So should I mount too, and above the Skies,
Rapt to th' Etern aboads unfeel my dying Hour.
V
But I must live still, and my flight to bound,
Till truly seal'd, there something, Lord, will be;
Some Work of Thine be' it, be it but a Tree,
Eve'n there I nearer Heav'n shall rest, than on the Ground.
22. Jan. 1671–2. noctu.
Exsurrexi & adhuc sum tecum
