TO
Dr.
Thomas
Gibson
.
The
Life
of
Souls
.
1704.
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
.