Philosophical poems by Henry More ...

CANT. I.

Adams long sleep, will, mind compar'd With low vitality, The fondnesse plainly have unbar'd Of Psychopannychie.

1

THe souls ever durancy I sung before, Ystruck with mighty rage. A powerfull fire Held up my lively Muse and made her soar So high that mortall wit, I fear, she'll tire To trace her. Then a while I did respire. But now my beating veins new force again Invades, and holy fury doth inspire. Thus stirred up I'll adde a second strain, Lest, what afore was said may seem all spoke in vain.

2

For sure in vain do humane souls exist After this life, if lull'd in listlesse sleep They senselesse lie wrapt in eternal mist, Bound up in foggy clouds, that ever weep Benumming tears, and the souls centre steep With deading liquour, that she never minds Or feeleth ought. Thus drench'd in Lethe deep, Nor misseth she her self, nor seeks nor finds Her self. This mirksome state all the souls actions binds.

3

Desire, fear, love, joy, sorrow, pleasure, pain, Sense, phancy, wit, forecasting providence, Delight in God, and what with sleepy brain Might sute, slight dreams, all banish'd farre from hence. Nor pricking nor applauding conscience Can wake the soul from this dull Lethargie; That 'twixt this sleepy state small difference You'll find and that men call Mortality. Plain death's as good as such a Psychopannychie.

4

What profiteth this bare existency, If I perceive not that I do exist? Nought longs to such, nor mirth nor misery. Such stupid beings write into one list With stocks and stones. But they do not persist, You'll say, in this dull dead condition. But must revive, shake off this drowsie mist At that last shrill loud-sounding clarion Which cleaves the trembling earth, rives monuments of stone:

5

Has then old Adam snorted all this time Under some senselesse sod with sleep ydead? And have those flames, that steep Olympus climbe Right nimbly wheeled or'e his heedlesse head So oft, in heaps of years low buried: And yet can ken himself when he shall rise Wakend by piercing trump, that farre doth shed Its searching sound? If we our memories And wit do lose by sicknesse, falls, sloth, lethargies;

6

If all our childhood quite be waste away With its impressions, so that we forget What once we were, so soon as age doth sway Our bowed backs, sure when base worms have eat His mouldring brains, and spirits have retreat From whence they came, spread in the common fire, And many thousand sloping sunnes have set Since his last fall into his ancient mire, How he will ken himself reason may well admire:

7

For he must know himself by some impression Left in his ancient body unwash'd out, Which seemeth strange. For can so long succession Of sliding years that great Colosses mought Well moulder into dust, spare things ywrought So slightly as light phantasms in our brain, Which oft one yeare or moneth have wrenched out And left no footsteps of that former stain, No more then's of a cloud quite melted into rain?

8

And shall not such long series of time, When Nature hath dispread our vitall spright And turn'd our body to its ancient slime, Quite wash away what ever was empight In that our spirit? If flesh and soul unite Lose such impressions, as were once deep seald And fairly glistered like to comets bright In our blew Chaos, if the soul congeald With her own body lose these forms as I reveald,

9

Then so long time of their disjunction (The body being into dust confract, The spright diffus'd, spread by dispersion) And such Lethean sleep that doth contract The souls hid rayes that it did nothing act Must certainly wipe all these forms away That sense or phansie ever had impact. So that old Adam will in vain assay To find who here he was, he'll have no memorie.

10

Nor can he tell that ere he was before: And if not tell, he's as if then first born. If as first born, his former life's no store. Yet when men wake they find themselves at morn. But if their memory away were worn With one nights sleep, as much as doth respect Themselves, these men they never were beforn, This day's their birth day: they cannot conject They ever liv'd till now, much lesse the same detect.

11

So when a man goes hence, thus may he say, As much as me concerns I die now quite. Adiew, good self! for now thou goest away, Nor can I possibly thee ever meet Again, nor ken thy face, nor kindly greet. Sleep and dispersion spoyls our memory. So my dear self henceforth I cannot weet. Wherefore to me it's perfectly to die, Though subtiler Wits do call't but Psychopannychie.

12

Go now you Psychopannychites! perswade To comely virtues and pure piety From hope of ioy, or fear of penance sad. Men promptly may make answer, Who shall try That pain or pleasure? When death my dim eye Shall close, I sleep not sensible of ought: And tract of time at least all memory Will qui••e debarre, that reacquainten mought My self with mine own self, if so my self I sought.

13

But I shall neither seek my self, nor find My self unsought: Therefore not deprehend My self in joy or wo. Men ought to mind What longs unto them. But when once an end Is put unto this life, and fate doth rend Our retinence; what follows nought at all Belongs to us: what need I to contend, And my frail spright with present pain to gall For what I nere shall judge my self did ere befall;

14

This is the uncouth state of sleeping soul, Thus weak of her own self without the prop Of the base body, that she no'te out-roll Her vitall raies: those raies Death down doth lop, And all her goodly beauty quite doth crop With his black claws. Wisdome, love, piety, Are straight dried up: Death doth their fountain stop, This is those sleepers dull Philosophy, Which fairly men invites to foul impiety.

15

But if we grant, which in my former song I plainly prov'd, that the souls energie Pends not on this base corse, but that self-strong She by her self can work, then when we fly The bodies commerce, no man can deny But that there is no interruption Of life; where will puts on, there doth she hie Or if she's carried by coaction. That force yet she observes by presse adversion.

16

And with most lively touch doth feel and find Her self. For either what she most doth love She then obtains; or else with crosse, unkind Contrary life since her decease sh' hath strove, That keeps her wake, and with like might doth move To think upon her self, and in what plight She's fallen. And nothing able to remove Deep searching vengeance, groans in this sad Night, And rores, and raves, and storms, and with her self doth fight.

17

But hearty love of that great vitall spright, The sacred fount of holy sympathy; Prepares the soul with its deep quickning might To leave the bodies vain mortality. Away she flies into Eternity, Finds full accomplishment of her desire; Each thing would reach its own centrality: So Earth with Earth, and Moon with Moon conspire. Our selves live most, when most we feed our Centrall fire.

18

Thus is the soul continually in life Withouten interruption, if that she Can operate after the fatall knife Hath cut the cords of lower sympathy: Which she can do, if that some energie She exercise (immur'd in this base clay) Which on frail flesh hath no dependency, For then the like she'll do, that done away. These independent acts, tis time now to display.

19

All comprehending Will, proportionate To whatsoever shall fall by Gods decree Or prudent sufferance, sweetly spread, dilate, Stretch'd out t' embrace each act or entity That creep from hidden cause that none can see With outward eyes. Next Intellect, whose hight Of working's then, when as it stands most free From sense and grosser phansie, deep empight In this vild corse, which to purg'd minds yields small delight.

20

Both Will and Intellect then worketh best, When Sense and Appetite be consopite, And grosser phansie lull'd in silent rest: Then Will grown full with a mild heavenly light Shines forth with goodly mentall rayes bedight, And finds and feels such things as never pen Can setten down, so that unexpert wight May reade and understand. Experienc'd men Do onely know who like impressions sustain:

21

So far's the Soul from a dependency (In these high actions) on the body base. And further signe is want of memory Of these impressions wrought in heavenly place, I mean the holy Intellect: they passe Leaving no footsteps of their former light, When as the soul from thence descended has. Which is a signe those forms be not empight In our low proper Chaos or Corporeall spright.

22

For then when we our mind do downward bend Like things we here should find: but all is gone Soon as our flagging souls so low descend As that straight spright. Like torch that droppeth down From some high tower, held steddy clearly shone, But in its fall leaves all its light behind, Lies now in darknesse on the grail, or stone, Or dirty earth: That erst so fully shin'd, Within a glowing coal hath now its light confin'd.

23

So doth the soul when from high Intellect To groveling sense she takes her stooping flight, Falling into her body, quite neglect, Forget, forgother former glorious sight. Grosse glowing fire for that wide shining light; For purest love, foul fury and base passion; For clearest knowledge, fell contentious fight Sprong from some scorching false inust impression Which she'll call truth, she gains. O witlesse Commutation!

24

But still more clear her independent might In understanding and pure subtile will To prove: I will assay t' explain aright The difference ('ccording to my best skill) 'Twixt these and those base faculties that well From union with the low consistency Of this Out-world, that when my curious quill, Hath well describ'd their great disparity, To th' highest we may give an independency.

25

The faculties we deem corporeall, And bound unto this earthy instrument (So bound that they no'te operate at all Without the body there immerse and meint) Be hearing, feeling, tasting, sight, and sent. Adde lower phansie, Mundane memory: Those powers be all or more or lesse ypent In this grosse life: We'll first their property Set down, and then the others contrariety.

26

This might perceives not its own instrument. The taste discovers not the spungy tongue; Nor is the Mundane spright (through all extent) From whence are sense and lower phansie sprong Perceived by the best of all among These learned Five, nor yet by phantasie: Nor doth or this or those so nearly throng Unto themselves as by propinquity To apprehend themselves. They no'te themselves descry;

27

Nor e're learn what their own impressions be. The mind held somewhere else in open sight, What ever lies, unknown unto the eye It lies, though there its image be empight, Till that our soul look on that image right. Wherefore themselves the senses do not know, Nor doth our phansie; for each furious wight Hath phansie full enough, so full't doth show As sense; nor he, nor's phansie doth that phansie know.

28

Age, potent objects, too long exercise Do weaken, hurt, and much debilitate Those lower faculties. The Sun our eyes Confounds with dazeling beams of light so that For a good while we cannot contemplate Ought visible: thus thunder deafs the eare, And age hurts both, that doth quite ruinate Our sense and phansie: so if long we heare Or see, 't sounds not so sweet, nor can we see so clear.

29

Lastly, the Senses reach but to one kind Of things. The eye sees colours, so the eare Hears sounds, the nostrills snuff perfumed wind; What grosse impressions the out-senses bear The phansie represents, sometimes it dare Make unseen shapes, with uncouth transformation, Such things as never in true Nature are. But all this while the phansies operation To laws bodily is bound: such is her figuration.

30

This is the nature of those faculties That of the lower Mundane spright depend. But in our Intellect farre otherwise We'st see it, if we pressely will attend And trace the parallels unto the end. There's no self-knowledge. Here the soul doth find Her self. If so, then without instrument. For what more fit to show our inward mind Then our own mind? But if 't be otherwise defin'd;

31

Then tell me, Knows she that fit instrument? if she kens not that instrument, how can She judge, whether truely it doth represent Her self? there may be foul delusion. But if she kens this Organ; straight upon This grant, I'll ask how kens she this same tole? What? by another? by what that? so go on Till to infinity you forward roll, An horrid monster count in Philosophick school.

32

The soul then works by 't self, and is self-liv'd, Sith that it acts without an instrument: Free motions from her own self deriv'd Flow round. But to go on. The eyes yblent Do blink even blind with objects vehement, So that till they themselves do well recure Lesse matters they no'te see. But rayes down sent From higher sourse the mind doth maken pure, Do clear, do subtilize, do fix, do settle sure.

33

That if so be she list to bend her will To lesser matters, she would it perform More excellently with more art and skill: Nor by long exercise her strength is worn; Witnesse wise Socrates, from morn to morn That stood as stiff as any trunck of tree: What eye could bear in contemplation So long a fix'dnesse, none so long could see, Its watery tears would wail its frail infirmity.

34

Nor feeble eld, sure harbinger of death, Doth hinder the free work of th' Intellect. When th' eye growes dim and dark that it unneath Can see through age, the mind then close collect Into her self, such mysteries doth detect By her far-piercing beams, that youthfull hear Doth count them folly and with scorn neglect, His ignorance concludes them but deceit; He hears not that still voyce, his pulse so loud doth beat.

35

Lastly sense, phansie, though they be confin'd To certain objects, which to severall Belong; yet sure the Intellect or mind Apprehends all objects, both corporeall, As colours, sounds; and incorporeall, As virtue, wisdome, and the higher spright, Gods love and beauty intellectuall; So that its plain that she is higher pight Then in all acts to pend on any earthly might.

36

If will and appetite we list compare, Like difference we easly their discover, This pent, contract, yfraught with furious jar And fierce antipathy. It boyleth over With fell revenge; or if new chance to cover The former passion; Suppose lust or fear: Yet all are tumults, but the will doth hover No whit enslav'd to what she findeth here, But in a free suspence her self doth nimbly bear.

37

Mild, gentle, calm, quick, large, subtill, serene, These be her properties which do increase The more that vigour in the bodies vein Doth waste and waxen faint. Desires decrease When age the Mundane spright doth more release From this straight mansion. But the will doth flower And fairly spread, near to our last decease Embraceth God with much more life and power Then ever she could do in her fresh vernall hower.

38

Wherefore I think we safely may conclude That Will and Intellect do not rely Upon the body, sith they are indew'd With such apparent contrariety Of qualities to sense and phantasie, Which plainly on the body do depend: So that departed souls may phantasms free Full well exert, when they have made an end Of this vain life, nor need to Lethe Lake descend.