While God my Father I revere,
  Nor all hell powers, nor death I fear;
    I am my Father’s care;
    His succours present are. 
  All comes from my loved Father’s will,
  And that sweet name intends no ill.

  God’s Son his soul, when life he closed,
  In his dear Father’s hands reposed: 
    I’ll, when my last I breathe,
    My soul to God bequeath;
  And panting for the joys on high,
  Invoking Love Paternal, die.

Born in 1657, one of the later English Platonists, John Norris, who, with how many incumbents between I do not know, succeeded George Herbert in the cure of Bemerton, has left a few poems, which would have been better if he had not been possessed with the common admiration for the rough-shod rhythms of Abraham Cowley.

Here is one in which the peculiarities of his theories show themselves very prominently.  There is a constant tendency in such to wander into the region half-spiritual, half-material.

  THE ASPIRATION.

      How long, great God, how long must I
      Immured in this dark prison lie;
  My soul must watch to have intelligence;
  Where at the grates and avenues of sense
  Where but faint gleams of thee salute my sight,
  Like doubtful moonshine in a cloudy night? 
      When shall I leave this magic sphere,
      And be all mind, all eye, all ear?

      How cold this clime!  And yet my sense
      Perceives even here thy influence. 
  Even here thy strong magnetic charms I feel,
  And pant and tremble like the amorous steel. 
  To lower good, and beauties less divine,
  Sometimes my erroneous needle does decline,
      But yet, so strong the sympathy,
      It turns, and points again to thee.

      I long to see this excellence
      Which at such distance strikes my sense. 
  My impatient soul struggles to disengage
  Her wings from the confinement of her cage. 
  Wouldst thou, great Love, this prisoner once set free,
  How would she hasten to be linked to thee! 
      She’d for no angels’ conduct stay,
      But fly, and love on all the way.

  THE RETURN.

  Dear Contemplation! my divinest joy! 
      When I thy sacred mount ascend,
      What heavenly sweets my soul employ! 
  Why can’t I there my days for ever spend? 
  When I have conquered thy steep heights with pain,
  What pity ’tis that I must down again!

  And yet I must:  my passions would rebel
      Should I too long continue here: 
      No, here I must not think to dwell,
  But mind the duties of my proper sphere. 
  So angels, though they heaven’s glories know,
  Forget not to attend their charge below.

The old hermits thought to overcome their impulses by retiring from the world:  our Platonist has discovered for himself that the world of duty is the only sphere in which they can be combated.  Never perhaps is a saint more in danger of giving way to impulse, let it be anger or what it may, than in the moment when he has just descended from this mount of contemplation.