Collected poems of Samuel Davies : 1723-1761

Active Spark of heav'nly Fire,
In a Clod of Earth confin'd,
Ever fluttering to aspire
To the Great Paternal Mind;
Strugling still with upward Aim
To mingle with thy native Flame!

Death soon will break this Pris'n of Clay,
And give thee Leave to spring away;
Then to thy native Regions go,
There with th' Etherial Flames to glow.

II.

Come, thou shining Hour, appear!
Happy Moment, Oh draw near!—
'Tis come!—I feel the purple Stream
Stagnate; in misty Darkness swim
My dizzy Eyes confus'd and dim;
Bedew'd with cold and clammy Sweat;
The dancing Pulses cease to beat;
In vain I gasp for Breath—
Strange! Can this be Death?

III.

Hark! Th' Angelic Envoy say,
“Sister Spirit, come away,
“Drop the Cumber of the Clay,
“And with thy Kindred join”—
Angels, I come; conduct me on:
Instruct me in a World unknown,
In Mysteries Divine:
Instruct me unexperienc'd Stranger how
To act as the Immortals do;
To think, and speak, and move like you:
Teach me the Senses to supply,
To see without the Optics of an Eye;
The Music of your Songs to hear
Without the Organ of an Ear.

IV.

Yes! now Blest Angels, now I find
The Pow'rs of an unfetter'd Mind!

How active and how Strange!
O happy Place! O blissful State!
Welcome Felicity compleat!
Welcome amazing, happy Change!

V.

And is this then Eternity!
And am I safely landed here!
No more to Sin, no more to die,
No more to sigh, or shed a Tear!—
My Soul! can this be I?
I, who just now imprison'd dwelt
In yonder World of Woe and Guilt!
Just now shudd'ring, trembling, sighing,
Startled at the Thought of dying!
Am I indeed the same?
Or is it all a pleasing Dream?—
The very same!—Ye heav'nly Choirs!
Cherubic and Seraphic Fires!
Come, assist my labouring Tongue;
Sound aloud the grateful Song;
Assist a Stranger to express
His Thanks to rich unbounded Grace—
Jesus! th' unbounded Grace was thine,
Who bled and languished on the Tree,
And bore infinite Pains for me,
To raise me thus to Joys Divine.
And do I see Thy Face at last,
O my Dear, incarnate God!
And has Thy Love Thy Servant plac'd
In this Thy shining, blest Abode!
Enough!—Thy Bounty gives me more
Than I could think or wish before.

The Plan of the first Part of this Poem, and one or two of the Lines, were borrowed from Mr. Pope's little charming Ode, entitled The dying Christian to his Soul.

University of Virginia Library

X. The Soul releas'd by Death.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.