Classic Poem

XVIII.
Seeke the Lord, and in his wayes persever:
O faint not, but as Eagles flye,
For his steepe hill is high;
Then, striving, gaine the top, and triumph ever.

When with glory there thy browes are crowned,
New joyes so shall abound in thee,
Such sights thy soule shall see,
That wordly thoughts shall by their beames be drowned.

Farewell, World, thou masse of meere confusion,
False light with many shadowes dimm'd,
Old Witch with new foyles trimm'd,
Thou deadly sleepe of soule, and charm'd illusion.

I the King will seeke of Kings adored,
Spring of light, tree of grace and blisse,
Whose fruit so sov'raigne is
That all who taste it are from death restored.