See how the orient dew,
the bosom of the morn
Into the blowing roses,
(Yet careless of
its mansion new,
For the clear region where 'twas born,)
itself incloses ;
And, in its little globe's extent,
Frames, as it
can, its native element.
How it the purple flower does slight,
Scarce touching where it lies ;
But gazing back upon the skies,
Shines with a mournful light,
Like its own tear,
long divided from the sphere.
Restless it rolls, and unsecure,
Trembling, lest it grow impure ;
Till the warm sun pity its pain,
to the skies exhale it back again.
So the soul, that drop, that
Of the clear fountain of eternal day,
(Could it within the human
flower be seen,)
Remembering still its former height,
sweet leaves, and blossoms green,
And, recollecting its own
Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express
The greater heaven
in an heaven less.
In how coy a figure wound,
Every way it
turns away ;
So the world-excluding round,
in the day ;
Dark beneath, but bright above,
disdaining, there in love.
How loose and easy hence to go ;
girt and ready to ascend ;
Moving but on a point below,
about does upwards bend.
Such did the manna's sacred dew distil ;
and entire, though congealed and chill ;
Congealed on earth ; but does,
Into the glories of the almighty sun.