Their short-liv’d jubilee the creatures keep,
Which but endures, whilst tyrant-man do’s sleep:
When a sedate consent the spirit feels,
And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals;
But silent musings urge the mind to seek
Something, too high for syllables to speak;
Till the free soul to a compos’dness charm’d,
Finding the elements of rage disarm’d,
O’er all below a solemn quiet grown,
Joys in th’ inferior world, and thinks it like her own: