Classic Poem

How is man parcell'd out? how ev'ry hour
Shews him himself, or somthing he should see?
This late, long heat may his Instruction be,
And tempests have more in them than a showr.

When nature on her bosome saw
Her Infants die,
And all her flowres wither'd to straw,
Her brests grown dry,
She made the Earth their nurse, & tomb,
Sigh to the sky,
'Til to those sighes fetch'd from her womb
Rain did reply,
So in the midst of all her fears
And faint requests
Her Earnest sighes procur'd her tears
And fill'd her brests.

O that man could do so! that he would hear
The world read to him! all the vast expence
In the Creation shed, and slav'd to sence.
Makes up but lectures for his eie, and ear.

Sure, mighty love foreseeing the discent
Of this poor Creature, by a gracious art
Hid in these low things snares to gain his heart,
And layd surprizes in each Element.

All things here shew him heaven; Waters that fall
Chide, and fly up; Mists of corruptest fome
Quit their first beds & mount; trees, herbs, flowres, all
Strive upwards stil, and point him the way home.

How do they cast off grossness? only Earth ,
And Man (like Issachar ) in lodes delight,
Water's refin'd to Motion , Aire to Light ,
Fire to all three, but man hath no such mirth.

Plants in the root with Earth do most Comply,
Their Leafs with water, and humiditie,
The Flowres to air draw neer, and subtiltie,
And seeds a kinred fire have with the sky.

All have their keyes , and set ascents ; but man
Though he knows these, and hath more of his own,
Sleeps at the ladders foot; alas! what can
These new discoveries do, except they drown?

Thus groveling in the shade, and darkness, he
Sinks to a dead oblivion; and though all
He sees, (like Pyramids ,) shoot from this ball
And less'ning still grow up invisibly,

Yet hugs he stil his durt; The stuffe he wears
And painted trimming takes down both his eies,
Heaven hath less beauty than the dust he spies,
And money better musick than the Spheres .

Life's but a blast, he knows it; what? shal straw,
And bul-rush-fetters temper his short hour?
Must he nor sip, nor sing? grows ne'r a flowr
To crown his temples? shal dreams be his law?

O foolish man! how hast thou lost thy sight?
How is it that the Sun to thee alone
Is grown thick darkness, and thy bread, a stone?
Hath flesh no softness now? mid-day no light?

Lord! thou didst put a soul here; If I must
Be broke again, for flints will give no fire
Without a steel, O let thy power cleer
Thy gift once more, and grind this flint to dust!