"The streiten'd Intellect immur'd does lie, / Shut up within a narrow place, / Till Nature does enlarge the Space, / And by degrees the Organs fit, / For those great Operations which are wrought by it."
— Chudleigh [née Lee], Mary, Lady Chudleigh (bap. 1656, d. 1710)
Grief mixes with our vital Breath:
As soon as we begin to be,
From the first moment of our Birth,
We have some tast of Misery:
With Sighs and Tears our Fate we mourn,
As if our Infant Reason did presage
Th' approaching Ills of our maturer Age,
And wish'd a quick Return.
When Souls are first to their close Rooms confin'd,
Nothing of their Celestial Make is seen,
Obscuring Earth does interpose between:
Like Tapers hid in Urns they shine.
The Life of Sense and Growth we only see,
Which Beasts enjoy as well as we:
But th' active Mind
Which bears the Image of the Pow'r Divine,
Cannot exert its Energy:
The streiten'd Intellect immur'd does lie,
Shut up within a narrow place,
Till Nature does enlarge the Space,
And by degrees the Organs fit,
For those great Operations which are wrought by it.
The Lady Chudleigh, Poems on Several Occasions. Together with the Song of the Three Children Paraphras'd (London: Bernard Lintott, 1703). <Link to Google Books>