University of Virginia Library

Learning lies deep, and short is Reason's Line,
And weakly do we guess at things Divine!
When those near hand our strict Discovery fly,
What Hopes to dive into Infinity?
The Soul's a Particle of Heavenly fire,
And boldly doth to every thing aspire:
But yet how low Her lofty Flights do fall;
When She attempts the Wonders of this Ball!
Our Apprehension Angels do exceed,
Like Thought, they can to distant Regions speed,
Nor helps They for Progressive Motion need.
Yet Mysteries, deep hid, they cannot find,
Such as Exceed th' Intelligences Mind,
And render all created Beings Blind.

No more, vain Friend, your useless Knowledge show,
Lost in Abysses, that no bottom know:
Lapp'd up in Shades, where not one cheerfull Ray
Amid the dismal Darkness points out day.
I grant your Skill,—but how far doth it reach;
Or what import the Mysteries, you teach?
If solid Orbs cramp up the Heaven above,
Or if they Free i'th' fluid Æther move:
What unseen Spring to them doth Motion give?
Leave these to those, who in those Regions Live.
How the Sun's piercing fire and genial heat,
Doth Mettals under Massy Rocks beget:
What are the Marchafites, of which they'r made,
And changing Salts, in the Composure laid:
How Heat Course Mettals into Gold refines,
(The Art for which the broyling Chymist pines)
Leave this (if such there be) to Dæmons of the Mines.
How Orient Pearls from Heavenly Dew are bred,
And, by what They at first were made, are fed.
The Wonders that in Neptune's Storehouse be,
The ragged Sea-calves better know, than We.
Thou think'st to search all with thy narrow Mind;
The Grasp's too wide for what is so confin'd.
Be Man: And if thou can'st, Inform me how
This Tree, this Flower, this Spire of Grass doth grow:
Why the same Moisture different Shapes doth wear;
Why this doth Green, why this doth Red appear;
Why this doth Fruit, this Flowers, this Herbage bear:
How each a seminal Vertue doth retain,
And, thô not conscious, gets his Like again:
Whose Plastick Vertue can new Being give,
From whom new Birth, when Dead, they can receive,
And even burnt Flowers can from their Ashes live.
How doth the Imp, when with the Stock 'tis knit,
The Stock's rough Juice to its own Nature fit,
And in the twisted Knot doth sweeten it?
Or Buds of generous Fruits in Wild ones set
A precious off-spring from base Plants beget?

Our Knowledge by the Sence's help we find,
'Tis those deceitfull Guides inform our Mind.
If then the Medium's false, thrô which Arts go,
How can we hope the genuine Truth to know?
The Water pure and clear i'th' Fountain flows;
But with ill Mixtures doth its Nature lose;
And tasts of every Soil, thrô which it goes.
We from our Sences upon trust Receive,
And Them, althô they oft delude, believe.
But Truth and Skill must Disputable grow;
If no account we of our Sences know.
If hidden Secrets in their Nature lie,
That all our diligent Enquiries flie,
If we their Nature strive to search in vain,
What then's the Learning, that by them we gain?

That we do Hear and See, we all do grant,
But of the manner how, are Ignorant.
If then in things within us we may err,
With which each Moment we'er familiar:
What hope remains, that we the Truth should find
Of things without, by our deluded Mind?
The Sense deceivs us, and like Painted Glass
Tinges all Objects, that do thrô it pass.

All Sense is made by Contact, You allow:
Contact from unseen Particles doth grow,
Which from all Objects to the Senses flow.
If they'r Material, whence do they arise?
What is't their Energy and Force supplies?
Whether they always in the Air do rove,
And wait Impulses, by whose Laws they move?
Or, when they'r wanted, by the Object made,
And thence with Message to the Sense convey'd?
If these their Subtlety to Motion owe,
Fragments, that from attrited Matter grow,
How happ's it, Time hath not worn all things so?
And why may not succeeding Ages fear,
That Length of Time the Universe should wear,
Till nothing Solid in the World appear?
The Senses various Particles employ;
What strikes the Ear, doth not affect the Eye;
And where the Ear is deaf, and Eye is blind,
The subtle Smell can a Sensation find.
The Atoms different, as the Organs are,
And various Forms, various Contextures wear
Besides the different Motions they dispence
From diverse Objects unto every Sense:
By which they to the Judging Soul do show,
Whether they Acceptable are or no.
The Eye doth Knowledge of each Colour take,
That various Motions doth i'th' Organ make;
In such Variety, such Cost and Dress,
Not all the Flowers of Rhetorick can express.
But whether What do these Impulses give
Their Power from Angulous Particles receive;
Or barely they This unto Motion owe;
A Secret lies we vainly wish to know.
Since then Effluviums from all Objects break,
And thrô the Air their unseen Journeys take,
To every Sense in various Measures come;
How is it that the crowding Troops find room?
Numberless Numbers to each Sense repair,
That various Motions, Forms, and Garbs do wear;
Enough to stifle up the liquid Air.
The justling Streams, always in Motions be,
To all around without Distinction fly.
And from all parts of Matter since they flow,
And heady Journeys in cross Paths do go:
Who in their Passage doth prescribe them Laws?
Or guards them, that they no Confusion cause?
Why do not Storms disperse the Rays of Light,
Why not obstruct their Journey to our sight?
Or those bright Rays, that in clear Days arise,
And from ten thousand Objects cheer our Eyes,
Hinder the Motion of progressive Noise?
In the same Moment from all parts they flow,
Contrary Courses in their Journeys go;
At the same time all Senses gratifie,
Yet we no Battle, nor Confusion spy.
'Tis true they'r Subtle; But they Numerous are:
They'r liquid: Yet the thwarting troops may jarr;
For waves meet waves, & streams with streams do war.
A Guardian Angel must be their Defence,
Or we must grant, that Atoms have a Sense.
No humane Force their Fury can restrain;
No giddy Chance their Motion can maintain;
No Mechanism their Nature can unfold;
No Laws, nor Rules in Sage's Books enrold.

Nature the Eye in beauteous Orbs hath dress'd,
Laid out more Work on't, than on all the rest;
'Tis her much valued Gem, that doth excell
The Treasure, Mines, or Sands, or Seas reveal:
Whose wise Contexture may deep Wits employ,
And hath made Atheists own a Deity.
Man is a Microcosm; suppose him One,
The Eye is of that Little-World the Sun.
Heaven's first-born Light without this had been lost;
In vain had Nature then been at that Cost.
Yet how this Organ entertains the Light,
And how that wondrous Act is made, the Sight
Whether it Rays receives, or Rays sends-out,
Remains yet an inextricable Doubt.

If th' Eye by sending-forth of Rays doth see,
So great Expence what is it can supply?
How do the Streams make Journeys to the Sky?
For if our Sight we on Emission ground,
We must lend Rays to fill the World around;
These too to' each Object must adapted be
And Images bring back, by which we see.
In vain, what Life and Light doth give, the Sun
His annual and dayly Course doth run;
In vain his chearfull Beams doth send: If we
Can from our Selves the want of Rays supply.
If we do from our Selves send Beams of Light;
What is the Difference betwixt Day and Night?
This then's untenable — —
Yet if the Organ by Reception see,
How flows the Poison from an Envious Eye?
How do his Opticks venemous Beams instill,
And Great Men in the height of Glory kill?
Whence hath the Basilisk his deadly Ray;
That can th' unwary Wretch at distance slay?
How is't, if Wolves first upon Men do look,
Men are with Hoarsness, or with Dumbness strook?
Whence are the Charms flow from a Beauteous Eye?
That do the strugling Slave in Fetters tie?
What Energy doth thrô his Vitals move;
What Magick Charm doth stirr him up to Love?
When Thoughts on winged Particles advance,
When piercing Looks the Lover's mutually entrance,
And their Souls on the fiery Atoms dance?
How is it Cats and Owls see in the Night,
When no Ray can illuminate the Sight.
Their Eyes in Darkness shine; why may not We
Inferr, that they by their own Beams do see?

This Object is a Central Point, from whence
Rays move around the whole Circumference:
To all about, where e're they'r plac'd, do flie;
In every station, do salute the Eye.
Th' adjoining Atom is a Center too,
From whence in equal streams the Rays do flow.
Ten thousand Objects entertain the Eye;
From each ten thousand thousand Beams do fly.
Since in straight Lines the Rays of Sight are led,
How are they truly to the Eye convey'd?
Why don't the Numbers in each way that rove,
The direct Course of steady Beams remove?
Why is no End unto their Motion put;
When they each other Infinitely cut?

But yet admit, they to the Eye arrive,
Who of their Nature can a Reason give!
Do they each Moment from the Sun repair;
Or have they setled Mansions in the Air?
If One; they swifter far than Matter move,
Their Nature from their extract they improve,
And seem a Quintessence sent from above.
What Nourishment must the vast Fount supply;
From whence such Streams incessantly do fly,
And fill the Liquid Air and Spacious Sky?
If from the Sun the Beams of Light do flow,
How doth a Candle the same Office do?
How doth the Glow-worm with the Sun contest,
And Brandish forth her Beams, when He's at rest?
Why's Rotten Wood and Fishes Scales so Bright?
Why doth Sea-water Sparkle in the Night?
These Subtle Parts, if in the Air they lie,
How haps, i'th' dark that they escape our Eye?
And then in Shades of Night why don't We see?
If Colour's in the Superficies made,
And variously, as that reflects, is bred:
If what absorps the Light is Black; that White,
Which forcibly Reflects the Rays of Light;
And all the dresses, that the World can show,
Are the compounded Mixtures of these two:
Why should two Marble Stones of equal weight,
Polish'd alike, equally Smooth and Bright,
Two different Colours wear of Black and White?
The same Contexture, Form, and Parts they show:
From whence in them do different Colours grow?

Admit all Colours, to the Organ brought,
Are by Reflection of the Object wrought:
And Draughts and Schemes present Deform'd or Fair,
As they Impulses rude or pleasing bear:
From various Parts that various Colours grow,
And all do on the Superficies flow;
For under that the Sight doth nothing know:
Whether these Parts, so subtle and refin'd,
That carry the Ideas to the Mind,
Barely by contact do their Acts maintain;
Or do materially invade the Brain,
A pressing doubt doth yet unsolv'd remain.

If these Impulses to the Eye do give,
That thence doth an Account of things receive;
The Sense, that only did from Motion grow,
When Motion sinks and dies, must perish too.
How haps it then, Ideas stay behind,
And, when We please, can paint anew the Mind,
When what created them is fled, like Wind?
If th' Eye into't nothing Material drew,
How is't the Mind can former Objects view,
And dress i'th' Brain the wandring Schemes anew?
How haps, what did unto our Sight advance,
In Dreams again i'th' cheated Soul do dance,
And with fresh Charms the credulous Mind entrance?
Dreams that arise, as all the Learned own,
From confus'd Parts of Bodies seen or known.
If thro the Eye the Vigorous Object darts
Into the Brain these small Aerial Parts;
How are they entertain'd, when Crowds do come?
How do the little narrow Cells make room?
Do all, that to an Object do belong,
Into one Place unmixt with others throng?
If not: how are things past call'd back with ease?
How is, what's gone, remember'd, when We please,
Even Adjuncts and Particularities?
But if new Streams the former do expell,
How is't of former Days we acts can tell?
The various Turns of Years long-since repeat;
What We've seen acted, what We've read, relate.
If Old and New i'th Brain together crowd,
How is it Room and Peace is them allow'd?
How do they and their Equipages come?
For if Material, they must take up room.
And tract of Time would hoard up such a Crop,
The crowded Atoms would the Channels stop,
And choke the Passages of Vision up.

The Ear in winding Labyrinths is laid,
Fit to receive and keep the Sound, is made:
But yet what Mind's so sharp, so deep, so strong,
To tell the Mysteries to this Sense belong?
What Garbs the fluid Atoms do array
When they our Thoughts to others do convey?
Whether the Atoms are of different size,
Or but from various Impulses rise?
When Soft and Melting Streams do flow from Love,
Or Stormy Accents do from Anger move?
Whence flow the Charms that do to Speech belong,
When Graces dance on a beloved Tongue!
Why the same Words from one should Love create,
And from another but ingender Hate?
Who can the Charms of Rhetorick express,
The Tunefull Motions and the Godlike Dress?
What Magick force the Captiv'd Ear doth ty,
When well plac'd Words from Artfull Lips do fly,
And calm or raise the Mind, as Storms the Sea?
How these Impulses, that to th' Ear do pass,
Such transports in the heightned Spirits cause?
The Ferment scarce will cool and sink again,
And Pleasure's more tumultuous, than Pain.
What Motions Speech must to the Ear convey,
Or in how many Forms the Atoms stray?
Since We can scarcely find two words alike,
But all must diversly the Organ strike.
Some no distinct Idea do create;
And Some are what We call Articulate.
The Birds have one, the Beasts another Tone,
And every Species hath a different one.
Beside from senseless things the various Noise,
That from Collision of their Parts doth rise:
What doth from Solids, what from Fluids flow,
What do from Winds, from Seas, and Thunder grow.

Whence are the Charms, that Musick doth dispence;
That lulls in pleasing Slumbers up the Sense?
When Raptures from the Numbers are compil'd,
Which render'd Alexander Fierce, or Mild:
Can quell the Lustfull or Revengefull Flame,
Can Bloody Rage and Savage Fury tame:
Can Conquer when all Arguments do fail,
When Reason's Ineffectual, can prevail:
Can Witchcraft's force and Poyson's fire asswage,
And, when all Medicines fail, Disease's Rage.
What Sorcery doth in these Numbers ly,
And what Enchantment from the Sounds doth fly?
The wondrous Art what Learning can explain,
That from mov'd Air doth all its Vertue gain,
And yet so Forcible and Strong, to call
The Senseless Stones to build Thebe's stately wall?
Enchanting Art! the Learn'd do own in Thee,
The next great Power unto the Deity.
By Musical Numbers, Heaven, they say, was made:
And by their help the Earth in Beauty laid.
Reason and Sense do from thy Concords fly,
For th' Human Soul it self's but Harmony.

Smelling, Thou subtle Sense, what th' Eye can't see,
Nor doth within the Sphear of Hearing lie;
What no Brisk Sallyes, no Impulses brings,
But silent lies hid in the Mass of things;
Thy secret Art can thrô all Mazes find,
Tho with confused Heaps of Parts combin'd.—
But how 'tis done, a Myst'ry yet remains
That Baffles all our curious Wit and Pains.
How is it the Sagacious Hound doth find
The unseen Parts, that mix with Air and Wind?
When with a trembling fear the Prey doth fly,
Employs his eager speed to' outstrip the Eye,
And hopes, that done, no farther Danger's nigh.
How is't, the Wind don't the Composure break,
And all the chain of Steames in pieces shake?
What doth those Parts from mixed Heaps extract,
And render the disjointed Parts-exact?
How doth the Hound pursue, when no tract's shown,
And keep the steady Path, where no Guide's known?
Thô others of the Kind the footsteps tread,
The mixture cannot Him to Errour lead:
How are the Kindred Vapours severed?
How doth He follow what at first He trac'd,
And Hunt without distraction to the last;
And all the bragging Chymist's Art surpass,—
Who, when mix'd Mettals do compound one Mass,
In time, by Pains, and by the help of Fire,
Each Mettal can extract and render each entire.
How is't, the Vultur hath so quick a smell,
He can in distant Realms of Battels tell;
And Slaughters at three hundred Leagues reveal?
How do the Particles of Smell come whole,
That must so far o'r Seas and Mountains rowl?
Who gives them Knowledge to find out the Way?
How haps, they are not wilder'd, while they stray,
Or lost, when they must mix with those of Land, or Sea?
How is it, Pestilential Vapours fly?
Why fix on this, and why the next pass by?
How Poyson they in pleasing Odours breath,
And while We suck Delight, We draw in Death.

No Light of Sense or Reason can descry,
What Steames from Aromatick Bodies fly:
When different Bodies different Odours cast,
And these Effluvium's are unlike the last.
How is it Gums such Streams of sweet diffuse;
And yet in Bulk or Weight do nothing loose?
Thô many Ages they to last are found,
With Odorous Parts incessantly abound,
Impregnate all the Sphear of Air around.
Yet for so great Expence, no great Decrease,
Nor do they grow proportionably less.
Now if these Atoms are Material, why,
Since they the small parts of the Compound be,
Doth not the Whole at length by parcels die?
Do they a secret unknown Vertue bear;
To change into their Kind the Ambient Air:
As all, Fire meets, doth his fierce Nature wear?
As Load-stones in the Iron their Vertue leave;
For what they touch, to Iron again will cleave?
Or do the Odours, that they thus disclose,
When they have circled round, i'th' Drugs repose?
In their first Parent loose themselves again,
And so their Odour, Bulk, and Weight maintain?
As Tapers in fast-closed Urnes are found,u—
(Whose Circling Rays do move for ever round)
To feed on Unctuous Fumes, they from them cast;
Supply themselves, and so can never wast.

I pass the Doubts, that ly i'th' Sense of Tast:
And those as great, that are in Feeling plac'd.
For wheresoe'r We look's an unknown Coast,
Our Mind perplex'd in endless Storms is tost;
And in th' Abyss all Wit and Learning lost.
There may more Senses be, that yet We want,
Whose Absence renders Us so Ignorant.
We known't, how high Angelick Sense doth rise,
Nor what th' Intelligences makes so wise.
We wondrous Acts done by the Creatures see,
Nor can We tell, but they new Senses be.
What makes the Cock at his due Seasons crow,
And Time of Midnight so exactly know?
How doth the Halcyon future Calmes presage,
And how Sea fowl approaching Tempest's Rage?
When they to Isles retire, and Seamen show
(Their Hate and Terrour) Storms before they blow.
Why Palms do flourish, when to Palms they'r nigh;
And when they'r parted, or decay, or die?
How doth the Needle his dear North pursue,
What Sense doth learn him to be ever true?
Why doth the Magnet his Course Iron enfold,
Nor can be Brib'd by what's more Precious, Gold?
The Subjects that for Sympathy are fam'd,
And what by Us Antipathies are nam'd,
May different Senses be; and so may those,
Whose Nature all our Learning can't disclose;
That do above our Ignorant darkness rise,
Lost in the name of Occult-Qualities,
Th' Asylum of the Slothfull or Unwise.

Boast of thy Mechanism, vain Friend, no more;
Nor think these Depths by Reason to explore.
Fix on what Part Thou wilt in all the Round,
Questions arise, thy Wisdom will confound.
What may Opinions try, no Standard's known,
Where Genuine Truth from falshood may be shown;
But gloomy Mists over the Mind do rowl,
And Prejudice doth prepossess the Soul.
All here we know's but Probability,
The Utmost Bound, to which our Wit can fly,
And that which Terminates Philosophy.
One Starts a Wit; the Schools his Schemes allow;
Untill Another Specious grounds doth show,
And doth the long-built Fabrick overthrow.
All strive for Empire, both in State and Wit,
He's Victor, unto whom the rest submit.
But here's the Fate of Both, Both slippery stand,
And yield to th' next Intruder their Command.

How wretched 'tis to trust on Chance, that's blind!
It brings no Comfort to the doubtfull Mind.
The Human Soul can't rest on such a Guide,
Nor's with unthinking Matter satisfied.
No Truth from Principles so weak can flow,
The more We search, the Darker still We grow.
Doubts after Doubts arise, and when one's done,
New Crowding Numbers hastning hurry on.
And what appear'd a Trifle to our Mind,
At nearer insight We a Mystery find.
So Countries seem to Seamen from the shore
But small; yet when they farther do explore,
They find with stretch'd-out Arms the widened Coast;
Till the bold Eye is in the Prospect lost.

A Wise, Just, Being over all presides,
The turns of Stupid Thoughtless Matter guides;
Whose boundless Wisdom knows to govern all
The Startling Wonders of this changing Ball.
In Him Man's Happy and his Soul at rest;
Doubts are husht up and Peace becalms the breast.
Courage on his Alliance doth depend;
In Him our anxious Fears and Terrours end.
“We in the Deity alone can rest,
“And in that Acquiescence must be blest.