Written at Clare Hall in Cambridge, upon Occasion of the Death of the Rev. Dr. Charles Morgan, Master of That…

Where free from sense, intrench'd in earth no more, The soul unbodied gains its native shore: Where Truth's uncloying banquet, ever new, Opens the depths of science to its view; No longer on the verge it darkly strays, But mystic Nature from within surveys; Nor wants the telescopic glass to trace God's power, and wisdom, thro' the boundless space; Where doubts no more, nor mysteries confine Its powers enlarg'd, its nature all divine,— He's gone—and there erects his deathless head— How vain our sorrows which lament him dead! Where Clarke, Boyle, Newton,—each exalted mind— Each, while on earth, who dignified their kind— Immortal now, with full fruition blest, See Truth in native beauty stand confest.

While some contemplative their charms admire, The Good Supreme their rational desire: Others, as erst, in sweetest converse join; For purest friendship dwells in breasts divine: Sudden, a venerable Shade is seen Of mildest dignity, and front serene: Th' august assembly rise—See Clarke attend, Joyful, to welcome first his much-lov'd friend: Hail Thou! whose presence joys the sons of God, Who, pious, have the paths of science trod. Behold for Thee, on Newton's own right hand, For Thee prepar'd, that throne of glory stand: 'Twas thine, exalted Genius! to disclaim, With just contempt, the breath of mortal fame; To nobler beings are thy praises known, Where Truth and Newton worlds unnumber'd own.