And do they so? have they a sense

Of aught but influence?

Can they their heads lift, and expect,

And groan too? why the Elect

Can do no more; my volumes said

They were all dull, and dead;

They judged them senseless, and their state

Wholly inanimate.

Go, go; Seal up thy looks,

And burn thy books!

Sometimes I sit with Thee, and tarry

An hour or so, then vary.

Thy other creatures in this scene

Thee only aim, and mean;

Some rise to seek Thee, and with heads

Erect, peep from their beds;

Others, whose birth is in the tomb,

And cannot quit the womb,

Sigh there, and groan for Thee,

Their liberty.

I would I were a stone, or tree,

Or flower by pedigree,

Or some poor highway herb, or spring

To flow, or bird to sing!

Then should I -- tied to one sure state --

All day expect my date ;

But I am sadly loose, and stray

A giddy blast each way;

O let me not thus range!

Thou canst not change.