Classic Poem

I

But shall my soul no wealth possess,
No outward riches have?
Shall hands and eyes alone express
Thy bounty? Which the grave
Shall strait devour. Shall I become
Within myself a living tomb
Of useless wonders? Shall the fair and brave
And great endowments of my soul lie waste,
Which ought to be a fountain, and a womb
Of praises unto Thee?
Shall there no outward objects be,
For these to see and taste?
Not so, my God, for outward joys and pleasures
Are even the things for which my limbs are treasures.

II

My palate is a touch-stone fit
To taste how good Thou art,
And other members second it
Thy praises to impart.
There's not an eye that's fram'd by Thee,
But ought Thy life and love to see:
Nor is there, Lord, upon mine head an ear,
But that the music of Thy works should hear.
Each toe, each finger, framed by Thy skill,
Ought ointments to distil.
Ambrosia, nectar, wine should flow
From every joint I owe,
Or things more rich; while they Thy holy will
Are instruments adapted to fulfill.

III

They ought, my God, to be the pipes
And conduits of Thy praise.
Men's bodies were not made for stripes,
Nor anything but joys.
They were not made to be alone:
But made to be the very throne
Of Blessedness, to be like Suns, whose rays,
Dispersed, scatter many thousand ways.
They drink in nectars, and disburse again
In purer beams, those streams,
Those nectars which are caus'd by joys,
And as the spacious main
Doth all the rivers, which it drinks, return,
Thy love receiv'd doth make the soul to burn.

IV

Elixirs richer are than dross,
And ends are more divine
Than are the means; but dung and loss
Materials (tho' they shine
Like gold and silver) are, compar'd
To what Thy Spirit doth regard,
Thy will require, Thy love embrace, Thy mind
Esteem, Thy nature most illustrious find.
These are the things wherewith we God reward.
Our love He more doth prize,
Our gratitude is in His eyes
Far richer than the skies.
And those affections which we do return,
Are like the love which in Himself doth burn.

V

We plough the very skies, as well
As earth; the spacious seas
Are ours; the stars all gems excel.
The air was made to please
The souls of men: devouring fire
Doth feed and quicken man's desire.
The orb of light in its wide circuit moves,
Corn for our food springs out of very mire,
Our fuel grows in woods and groves;
Choice herbs and flowers aspire
To kiss our feet: beasts court our loves.
How glorious is man's fate!
The laws of God, the works He did create,
His ancient ways, are His and my Estate.