Classic Poem

I.

Fond Soul! is this
Thy way to bliss?
Grasp both the Indies, let thy mighty hand
The iron North, and golden South command;
Transcend the Moon,
Fasten thy Throne
Above the fixed stars: above expressions,
Above thy thought enlarge thy vast possessions;
Fond soul! all this
Cannot make up thy bliss.

II.

All these are vain,
Full, but with pain:
All Creatures have their end to serve, not bless thee;
As Servants they may help, as Lords oppress thee.
They vex in getting,
Us'd, lost with fretting;
Can slaves advance, shades fill, can grief give rest?
That, which was curs'd for thee, can't make thee blest.
They all are vain,
And bring not bliss, but pain.

III.

Fond Soul! thy birth
Is not of Earth,
Or Heav'n: thou Earth, and Heav'n it self survivest:
Though born in time, thou dying time out-livest.
They fail, deceive thee,
They age, dye, leave thee;
Soar up immortal spirit, and mounting fly
Into the arms of great Eternity;
Not Heav'n, or Earth,
He, he thy End, and Birth.