ODE VIII

1

Oh, how I wander! Oh, where shall at last
My wearied feet have rest? my mind repast?
Where shall I find, the wished 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 overwatching ake;
I count the Atomes, of Times 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 glasse 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 utmost 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 mans 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 joyne my String, to that Celestiall Quire
Whose Harmonie, is one united Lire,
Of Sacred Fire.

7

There Centred, Rest in all her Joyes doth Rest;
Full in her Peace, with Joy and Glorie Blest;
Still may wee travell out our Age, in Feare,
To find that upon Earth, which is noe where,
But onlie there.