Power’s purple robe, nor pleasure’s flowery lap,
The Soul should find enjoyment: but from these
Turning, disdainful, to an equal good,
Through all the ascent of things enlarge her view,
Till every bound at length should disappear,
And infinite perfection close the scene.
Akenside.
The soul on earth is an immortal guest,
Condemned to starve at an unreal feast:
A spark, which upwards tends by nature’s force;