ODE VIII.
[Oh, how I wander, oh, where shall, at last]
1
Oh, how I wander, oh, where shall, at last,
My wearied feet have rest? My mind repast?
Where shall I find the wishéd Port of rest,
To Strike away the Fears which have opprest
My wounded Brest?
2
Long Dayes I travell; bitter nights I wake;
Till Heart and Head, with over-watching ake;
I count the Atomes of Time's running Glasse;
And thinke the Howers, (which once did fleetly passe;)
Slow as an Asse.
3
I wonder Time can be soe patient;
My bowells burne till all his glass be spent.
The night brings horror, day gives noe releife,
To my Affliction; one continued greife
Weares out my Life.
4
Some pious Hand direct me! I have gone
From Pole to Pole, and left where I begun.
I tooke the wings which for the Day were drest,
Survaied the orient, to the vtmost west;
But found noe Rest.
5
Yet, yet, at length, let my spent Bodie find
A short repose. Oh, would you be soe kind,
You who can onlie perfect Man's desire,
And give that Rest to which I now Aspire;
A Rest entire.
6
Then should my Soule in mightie Raptures move:
Where Sacred Rapture fires it all in Love;
And ioyne my String to that Celestiall Qvire
Whose Harmonie is one vnited Lire,
Of Sacred Fire.
7
There Centred, Rest in all her Ioyes doth Rest;
Full in her Peace; with Ioy and Glorie Blest;
Still may wee travell out our Age, in Feare,
To find that vpon Earth, which is noe where;
But onlie there.
