The Circulation

As fair ideas from the sky,Or images of things,Unto a spotless mirror fly,On unperceived wings,And lodging there affect the sense,As if at first they came from thence;While being there, they richly beautifyThe place they fill, and yet communicateThemselves, reflecting to the seer's eye;Just such is our estate.No praise can we return again,No glory in ourselves possess,But what derived from without we gain,From all the mysteries of blessedness.

No man breathes out more vital airThan he before sucked in:Those joys and praises must repairTo us, which 'tis a sinTo bury in a senseless tomb.An earthly wight must be the heirOf all those joys the holy Angels prize,He must a king before a priest become,And gifts receive or ever sacrifice.'Tis blindness makes us dumb:Had we but those celestial eyes,Whereby we could behold the sumOf all His bounties, we should overflowWith praises did we but their causes know.

All things to Circulations oweThemselves; by which aloneThey do exist; they cannot shewA sigh, a word, a groan,A colour or a glimpse of light,The sparkle of a precious stone,A virtue, or a smell, a lovely sight,A fruit, a beam, an influence, a tear,But they another's livery must wear,And borrow matter first,Before they can communicate.Whatever's empty is accurst:And this doth shew that we must some estatePossess, or never can communicate.

A sponge drinks in the water, whichIs afterwards exprest.A liberal hand must first be rich:Who blesseth must be blest.The thirsty earth drinks in the rain,The trees suck moisture at their roots,Before the one can lavish herbs again,Before the other can afford us fruits.No tenant can raise corn or pay his rent,Nor can even have a lord,That has no land. No spring can vent,No vessel any wine affordWherein no liquor's put. No empty purse,Can pounds or talents of itself disburse.

Flame that ejects its golden beamsSups up the grosser air;To seas that pour out their streamsIn springs, those streams repair;Receiv'd ideas make even dreams.No fancy painteth foul or fairBut by the ministry of inward light,That in the spirits cherisheth its sight.The moon returneth light, and some men sayThe very sun no rayNor influence could have, did itNo foreign aids, no food admit.The earth no exhalations would afford,Were not its spirits by the sun restored.

All things do first receive, that give:Only 'tis God above,That from and in Himself doth live;Whose all-sufficient loveWithout original can flowAnd all the joys and glories shewWhich mortal man can take delight to know.He is the primitive eternal springThe endless ocean of each glorious thing.The soul a vessel is,A spacious bosom, to containAll the fair treasures of His bliss,Which run like rivers from, into the main,And all it doth receive returns again.