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 itself encloses, used intransitively.
    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,
  Because so long divided from the sphere: 
    Restless it rolls, and unsecure,
      Trembling lest it grow impure,
    Till the warm sun pity its 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 human flower be seen,
    Remembering still its former height,
    Shuns the sweet 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 easy 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 distil—­
  White and entire,[141] though congealed and chill—­
  Congealed on earth, but does, dissolving, run
  Into the glories of the almighty sun.

Surely a lovely fancy of resemblance, exquisitely wrought out; an instance of the lighter play of the mystical mind, which yet shadows forth truth.

  THE CORONET.

  When for the thorns with which I long too long,
      With many a piercing wound,
      My Saviour’s head have crowned,
  I seek with garlands to redress that wrong,
    Through every garden, every mead
  I gather flowers—­my fruits are only flowers—­
    Dismantling all the fragrant towers
  That once adorned my shepherdess’s head;
  And now, when I have summed up all my store,
      Thinking—­so I myself deceive—­
      So rich a chaplet thence to weave
  As never yet the King of glory wore;
      Alas!  I find the serpent old,
      That, twining in his speckled breast,
      About the flowers disguised does fold,
      With wreaths of fame and interest. 
  Ah, foolish man that wouldst debase with them
  And mortal glory, heaven’s diadem! 
  But thou who only couldst the serpent tame,
  Either his slippery knots at once untie,
  And disentangle all his winding snare,
  Or shatter too with him my curious frame,[142]
  And let these wither, that so he may die,
  Though set with skill, and chosen out with care;
  That they, while thou on both their spoils dost tread,
  May crown thy feet that could not crown thy head.