TO
Mr.
A.
S.
and
Mr.
T.
H.
STRICT
RELIGION
Exceeding
Rare
.
1705.
I.
I'ME
born
aloft
and
leave
the
Croud
,
I
sail
upon
a
Morning-Cloud
Skirted
with
dawning
Gold
:
Mine
Eyes
beneath
the
opening
Day
Command
the
Globe
with
wide
survey
,
Where
Ants
in
busie
Millions
play
And
tug
and
heave
the
Mould
.
II
.
"
Are
These
the
things
,
my
Passion
cry'd
,
"
That
we
call
Men
?
Are
These
ally'd
"
To
the
fair
Worlds
of
Light
?
"
They
have
ras'd
out
their
Maker's
Name
"
Grav'n
on
their
Minds
with
pointed
Flame
"
In
Strokes
Divinely
bright
.
III
.
"
Wretches
,
they
hate
their
Native
Skies
:
"
If
an
Ethereal
Thought
arise
"
Or
Spark
of
Vertue
shine
,
"
With
cruel
Force
they
damp
its
Plumes
,
"
Choke
the
Young
Fire
with
sensual
Fumes
,
"
And
Chain
their
Souls
to
Sin
.
IV
.
"
Lo
,
how
they
throng
with
panting
Breath
"
The
broad
descending
Road
"
That
leads
unerring
down
to
Death
,
"
Nor
miss
the
Dark
Abode
.
Thus
while
I
drop
a
Tear
or
two
On
the
wild
Herd
,
a
Noble
Few
Dare
to
stray
upward
,
and
pursue
Th'
unbeaten
Way
to
God
.
V.
I
meet
their
Spirits
mounting
high
,
SHALLET
I
saw
,
and
HUNT
was
there
,
They
break
thro'
loads
of
Pondrous
Care
,
With
Morning
Incense
up
they
Fly
Perfuming
all
the
Air
.
Charm'd
with
the
Pleasure
of
the
Sight
My
Soul
adores
and
Sings
:
"
Blest
be
the
Power
that
aids
their
Flight
,
"
That
streaks
their
Path
with
heavenly
Light
,
"
And
gives
them
Zeal
for
Wings
.