| SEE how the orient dew |
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| Shed from the bosom of the Morn |
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| Into the blowing roses, |
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| Yet careless of its mansion new, |
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| For the clear region where ’twas born, |
5 |
| Round in its self incloses: |
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| And in its little globe’s extent |
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| Frames, as it can, its native element. |
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| How it the purple flow’r does slight, |
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| Scarce touching where it lyes, |
10 |
| But gazing back upon the skies, |
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| Shines with a mournful light, |
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| Like its own tear, |
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| Because so long divided from the sphear. |
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| Restless it roules, and unsecure, |
15 |
| Trembling, lest it grow impure; |
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| Till the warm sun pitty its pain |
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| And to the skies exhale it back again. |
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| So the soul, that drop, that ray, |
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| Of the clear fountain of eternal day, |
20 |
| (Could it within the humane flow’r be seen) |
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| Rememb’ring still its former height, |
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| Shuns the sweat leaves and blossoms green, |
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| And, recollecting its own light, |
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| Does in its pure and circling thoughts express |
25 |
| The greater heaven in an heaven less. |
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| In how coy a figure wound, |
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| Every way it turns away; |
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| (So the world-excluding round) |
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| Yet receiving in the day. |
30 |
| Dark beneath, but bright above, |
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| Here disdaining, there in love. |
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| How loose and easie hence to go; |
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| How girt and ready to ascend; |
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| Moving but on a point below, |
35 |
| It all about does upwards bend. |
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| Such did the manna’s sacred dew destil, |
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| White and intire, though congeal’d and chill; |
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| Congeal’d on Earth; but does, dissolving, run |
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| Into the glories of th’ almighty sun. |
40 |
