Classic Poem

Hence, tho' at once thy Soul liv'd here and there,
Yet Heaven alone its Thoughts did share;
It own'd no home, but in the active Sphere.
Its Motions always did to that bright Center rowl,
And seem'd t'inform thee only on Parole.
Look how the Needle does to its dear North incline,
As were't not fix't 'twould to that Region climb;
Or mark what hidden force
Bids the Flame upwards take its course,
And makes it with that Swiftness rise,
As if 'twere wing'd by th' Air thro' which it flies.
Such a strong Vertue did thy Inclinations bend,
And made 'em still to the blest Mansions tend.
That mighty Slave whom the proud Victor's Rage
Shut Pris'ner in a golden Cage,
Condemn'd to glorious Vassalage,
Ne'er long'd for dear Enlargement more,
Nor his gay Bondage with less Patience bore,
Than this great Spirit brookt its tedious Stay,
While fetter'd here in brittle Clay,
And wish'd to disengage and fly away.
It vext and chaf'd, and still desir'd to be
Releas'd to the sweet Freedom of Eternity.