Classic Poem

Man's soul, while in the flesh he lives,
Her pow'r doth exercise
Within the body, yet survives
Although the body dies.

She's by herself an active thing,
That hath a working might:
Which not from sense's pow'r doth spring,
Nor yet from humour's spright.

Were she the bodies' quality,
She might be sick and blind;
But in decaying flesh we see
A perfect healthy mind.

When in th' effects the cause she sees,
From fruits the roots doth know;
Her views not from her body's eyes,
But from her own do flow.

When swifter than the lightnings fly,
Her thoughts from east to west,
And round the centre, 'bove the sky,
Move, though the body rest:

When first her works she forms within,
And sees her perfect end,
Ere she to act at all begin;
No aid can senses lend.

When without hands she builds up tow'rs,
And without feet doth run;
Sees without eyes, by her own pow'rs
These miracles are done.

When she on vice and virtue thinks,
Considers general things;
And from known truths, in divers links,
A right conclusion brings:

These actions by herself alone
Retir'd she does fulfil;
Of all her body's organs none
Can aid her wit or will.

Yet she in flesh imprison'd lies,
Must through its windows look,
Her pow'rs of sense to exercise,
And read the world's great book.

Though scarce the soul can judge of ought,
But what the sense home brings:
Yet judging pow'rs, and what's thus brought,
Are vastly diff'rent things.

Our eyes can nought but colours see,
Yet colours give not sight;
The soul, when seen her objects be,
Views them by her own light.

Workmen, on stuff their skill to show;
The stuff ne'er gave them skill;
Nor more, from objects seen, can flow
Soul pow'rs to act or will.

Yea, oft to check the sense she's sure,
Nor when it errs agrees;
But crosses it; for, with a pow'r,
Above the sense she sees.

No sense the holy joys conceives
Which in her closets be;
The ravish'd soul her senses leaves,
And hath her motions free.

Her distinct nature shines in this,
That her choice works alone
She works: this nature's touchstone is,
Things by their works are known.

But why the soul and sense divide,
When sense is but a pow'r,
The soul extends on ev'ry side,
Her objects to explore?

Mere sense cannot one thought command;
For eyes and ears perceive
No more than glasses understand,
What faces they receive.

Souls guide the sight; for, chance but we
To fix our thoughts elsewhere;
Our eyes, though open, cannot see,
But, like a statue, stare.

And, if one pow'r, which senses bound,
Did not both hear and see;
Then, most confus'd, our sight and sound
Would always double be.

The soul then sense's pow'r contains,
Within a greater pow'r,
Which still employs the sense's pains,
But rules in her own bow'r.

Heav'n in man's soul these pow'rs did grave,
Ev'n her's alone to be;
On earth no other creatures have
These heav'nly pow'rs but we.]