TO Dr. Thomas Gibson. The Life of Souls. I. SWIFT as the Sun rolls round the Day We hasten to the Dead, Slaves to the Wind we puff away, And to the Ground we tread. 'Tis Air that lends us Life, when first The vital Bellows heave; Our Flesh We borrow of the Dust, And when a Mothers Care has Nurst The Babe to Manly size, we must With Usury pay the Grave. Juleps still tend the dying Flame, And Roots and Herbs play well their Game To save our sinking Breath, While GIBSON brings his awful Power To rescue the precarious Hour From the Demands of Death. II. I'de have a Life to call my Own That shall depend on Heaven alone; Nor Air, nor Earth, nor Sea Mix their base Essences with mine, Nor claim Dominion so Divine To give me leave to Be. III. Sure there's a Mind within, that reigns O're the dull current of my Veins, I feel the Inward Pulse beat high With vigorous Immortality. Let Earth resume the Flesh it gave, And Breath dissolve amongst the Winds; GIBSON, the things that fear a Grave, That I can loose, or You can save, Are not akin to Minds. IV. We claim acquaintance with the Skies, Upward our Spirits hourly rise, And there our Thoughts Employ: When Heaven shall sign our Grand Release, We are no Strangers to the Place, The Business, or the Joy.