Philosophical poems by Henry More ...

THE ORACLE OR, A Paraphrasticall Interpretation of the answer of Apollo, when he was con∣sulted by Amelius whither Plotinus soul went when he de∣parted this life.

I Tune my strings to sing some sacred verse Of my dear friend; in an immortall strain His mighty praise I loudly will rehearse With hony-dewed words: some golden vein The strucken chords right sweetly shall resound. Come, blessed Muses, let's with one joynt noise, With strong impulse, and full harmonious sound, Speak out his excellent worth. Advance your voice, As once you did for great Aeacides, Rapt with an heavenly rage, in decent dance, Mov'd at the measures of Meonides. Go to, you holy Quire, let's all at once Begin, and to the end hold up the song, Into one heavenly harmony conspire; I Phoebus with my lovely locks ymong The midst of you shall sit, and life inspire. Divine Plotinus! yet now more divine Then when thy noble soul so stoutly strove In that dark prison, where strong chains confine, Keep down the active mind it cannot move To what it loveth most. Those fleshly bands Thou now hast loos'd, broke from Necessitie. From bodies storms, and frothie working sands Of this low restlesse life now setten free,

Thy feet do safely stand upon a shore, Which foaming waves beat not in swelling rage, Nor angry seas do threat with fell uprore; Well hast thou swommen out, and left that stage Of wicked Actours, that tumultuous rout Of ignorant men. Now thy pure steps thou stay'st In that high path, where Gods light shines about, And perfect Right its beauteous beams displayes. How oft, when bitter wave of troubled flesh, And whirl-pool-turnings of the lower spright, Thou stoutly strov'st with, Heaven did thee refresh, Held out a mark to guide thy wandring flight! While thou in tumbling seas didst strongly toyl To reach the steddie Land, struckst with thy arms The deasing surges, that with rage do boyl; Stear'd by that signe thou shunn'st those common harms. How oft, when rasher cast of thy souls eye Had thee misguided into crooked wayes, Wast thou directed by the Deitie? They held out to thee their bright lamping rayes: Dispers'd the mistie darknesse, safely set Thy feeble feet in the right path again. Nor easie sleep so closely ere beset Thy eyelids, nor did dimnesse ere so stain Thy radiant sight, but thou such things didst see Even in that tumult, that few can arrive Of all are named from Philosophie To that high pitch, or to such secrets dive. But sith this body thy pure soul divine Hath left, quite risen from her rotten grave, Thou now among those heavenly wights dost••shine, Whose wonne this glorious lustre doth embrave: There lovely Friendship, mild-smiling Cupid's there, With lively looks and amorous suavitie, Full of pure pleasure, and fresh flowring chear; Ambrosian streams sprung from the Deitie Do frankly flow, and soft love-kindling winds Do strike with a delicious sympathie Those tender spirits, and fill up their minds With satisfying joy. The puritie Of holy fire their heart doth then invade, And sweet Perswasion, meek Tranquillitie,

The gentle-breathing Air, the Heavens nought sad, Do maken up this great felicitie. Here Rhadamanthus, and just Aeacus, Here Minos wonnes, with those that liv'd of yore I'th' golden age; here Plato vigorous In holy virtue, and fair Pythagore. These been the goodly Off-spring of Great Jove, And liven here, and who so fill'd the Quire And sweet assembly of immortall Love, Purging their spirits with refining fire; These with the happy Angels live in blisse, Full fraught with joy, and lasting pure delight, In friendly feasts, and life-outfetching kisse. But, ah! dear Plotin, what smart did thy sprite Indure, before thou reach'st this high degree Of happinesse? what agonies, what pains Thou underwent'st to set thy soul so free From baser life? She now in heaven remains Mongst the pure Angels. O thrice-happy wight! That now art got into the Land of Life, Fast plac'd in view of that Eternall Light, And sitt'st secure from the foul bodies strife. But now, you comely virgins, make an end, Break off this musick, and deft seemly Round, Leave off your dance: For Plotin my dear friend Thus much I meant my golden harp should sound.