How long, great God, must I
Immured in this dark prison lie?
Where, at the grates and avenues of sense
My soul must watch to have intelligence;
Where but faint gleam of thee salute my sight,
Like doubtful moonshine in a cloudy night.
When shall I see this magic sphere
And be all mind, all eye, all ear?
How cold this clime! And yet my sense
Perceives ev'n here thy influence;
Ev'n here thy strong magnetic charms I feel,
And pant and tremble like the amorous steel;
To lower good, and beauties not divine,
Sometimes my erroneous needle does decline;
But yet so strong the sympathy,
It turns and points again to thee.
I long to see this excellence
Which at such distance strikes my sense;
My impatient soul struggles to disengage
Her wings from the confinement of her cage.
Would'st thou, great Love, this prisoner once set free:
How she would hasten to be linked to thee.
She'd for no angel's conduct stay,
But fly and love on all the way.