See
how
the
Orient
Dew,
Shed
from
the
Bosom
of
the
Morn
Into
the
blowing
Roses,
Yet
careless
of
its
Mansion
new;
For
the
clear
Region
where
'twas
born
Round
in
its
self
incloses:
And
in
its
little
Globes
Extent,
Frames
as
it
can
its
native
Element.
How
it
the
purple
flow'r
does
slight,
Scarce
touching
where
it
lyes,
But
gazing
back
upon
the
Skies,
Shines
with
a
mournful
Light;
Like
its
own
Tear,
Because
so
long
divided
from
the
Sphear.
Restless
it
roules
and
unsecure,
Trembling
lest
it
grow
impure:
Till
the
warm
Sun
pitty
it's
Pain,
And
to
the
Skies
exhale
it
back
again.
So
the
Soul,
that
Drop,
that
Ray
Of
the
clear
Fountain
of
Eternal
Day,
Could
it
within
the
humane
flow'r
be
seen,
Remembring
still
its
former
height,
Shuns
the
sweat
leaves
and
blossoms
green;
And,
recollecting
its
own
Light,
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,
Yet
receiving
in
the
Day.
Dark
beneath,
but
bright
above:
Here
disdaining,
there
in
Love.
How
loose
and
easie
hence
to
go:
How
girt
and
ready
to
ascend.
Moving
but
on
a
point
below,
It
all
about
does
upwards
bend.
Such
did
the
Manna's
sacred
Dew
destil;
White,
and
intire,
though
congeal'd
and
chill.
Congeal'd
on
Earth:
but
does,
dissolving,
run
Into
the
Glories
of
th'
Almighty
Sun.