However, I am sure there is a common spirit that plays within us, yet
makes no part in us; and that is the Spirit of God, the fire and
scintillation of that noble and mighty essence, which is the life and
radical heat of spirits, and those essences that know not the virtue of
the sun, a fire quite contrary to the fire of hell. This is that gentle
heat that brooded on the waters, and in six days hatched the world; this
is that irradiation that dispels the mists of hell, the clouds of horror,
fear, sorrow, despair; and preserves the region of the mind in serenity.
Whatsoever feels not the warm gale and gentle ventilation of this spirit
(though I feel his pulse), I dare not say he lives; for truly without
this, to me there is no heat under the tropic; nor any light, though I
dwelt in the body of the sun.
As when the labouring sun hath wrought his track
Up to the top of lofty Cancer's back,
The icy ocean cracks, the frozen pole
Thaws with the heat of the celestial coal;
So when Thy absent beams begin t'impart
Again a solstice on my frozen heart,
My winter's o'er, my drooping spirits sing,
And every part revives into a spring.
But if Thy quick'ning beams awhile decline,
And with their light bless not this orb of mine,
A chilly frost surpriseth every member,
And in the midst of June I feel December.
O how this earthly temper doth debase
The noble soul, in this her humble place!
Whose wingy nature ever doth aspire
To reach that place whence first it took its fire.
These flames I feel, which in my heart do dwell,
Are not Thy beams, but take their fire from hell.
O quench them all, and let Thy light divine,
Be as the sun to this poor orb of mine:
And to Thy sacred spirit convert those fires,
Whose earthly fumes choke my devout aspires.