Classic Poem

Religion, which true policy befriends,
Design'd by God to serve Man's noblest ends,
Is by that old deceiver's subtile play
Made the chief party in its own decay,
And meets that Eagle's destiny, whose breast
Felt the same shaft which his own feathers drest.
For that great enemy of soules perceiv'd,
The notion of a Deity was weav'd
So closely in man's soule; to ruine that,
He must at once the world depopulate.
But as those Tyrants who their wills pursue,
If they expound old Laws, need make no new:
So he advantage takes of nature's Light,
And raises that to a bare useless height;
Or while we seek for truth, he in the quest
Mixes a passion, or an interest,
To make us loose it; that, I know not how,
'Tis not our Practise, but our Quarrell now
And as i'th' Moone's Ecclipse some Pagans thought
Their barb'rous clamours her deliverance wrought:
So we suppose that Truth oppressed lyes,
And needs a rescue from our Enmitys.
But tis injustice, and the mind's disease,
To think of gaining truth by loosing Peace.
Knowledge and Love, if true, doe still Unite;
God's Love and knowledge are both infinite
And though indeed Truth doth delight to ly
At some remoteness from a Common ey;
Yet 'tis not in a Thunder or a Noise,
But in soft whispers and the stiller voice
Why should we then Knowledge so rudely treat,
Making our Weapon what was meant our meat?
'Tis ignorance that makes us quarrel so;
The soule that's dark will be contracted too
Chymaeras make a noise, swelling and vain,
And soone resolve to their own smoak again;
But a true Light the spirit doth dilate,
And robs it of its proud and sullen state;
Makes Love admir'd because 'tis understood,
And makes us wise because it makes us good
'Tis to a right prospect of things that we
Ow our uprightness and our Charity;
For who resists a beam when shining bright,
Is not a sinner of a common height
That state is forfeiture, and helps are spent,
Not more a sin then 'tis a punishment.
The soule that sees things in their native frame,
Without opinions, mask or custome's name,
Cannot be clogg'd to sence, or count that high
Which hath its estimation from a Ly
(Meane sordid things; which by mistake we prise,
And absent covet, but enjoy'd despise.)
But scorning these hath robb'd them of their Art,
Either to swell or to subdue the heart;
And learnt that generous frame to be above
The world in hopes, below it all in Love:
Touch'd with divine and inward life doth run,
Not resting till it hath its Centre wonne;
Moves steadily Untill it safe doth ly
I'th' roote of all its Immortallity;
And resting here, hath yet activity
To grow more like unto the Deity;
Good, Universall, wise and Just as he,
(The same in kind, though differing in degree)
Till at the last 'tis swallow'd up and grown
With god and with the whole Creation One;
Its self, so small a part, i'th whole is lost,
And generalls have particulars engross'd
That dark contracted Personallity,
Like mists before the Sun, will from it fly;
And then the soule, one shining Sphaere, at Length,
Fill'd with true love wisedome and purged strength,
Beholds her highest good with open face,
And like him all the world she can embrace.