Walking

To walk abroad is, not with eyes,    But thoughts, the fields to see and prize;        Else may the silent feet,           Like logs of wood,    Move up and down, and see no good        Nor joy nor glory meet.    Ev'n carts and wheels their place do change,    But cannot see, though very strange        The glory that is by;          Dead puppets may   Move in the bright and glorious day,       Yet not behold the sky.   And are not men than they more blind,   Who having eyes yet never find       The bliss in which they move;          Like statues dead   They up and down are carried       Yet never see nor love.   To walk is by a thought to go;   To move in spirit to and fro;       To mind the good we see;          To taste the sweet;   Observing all the things we meet       How choice and rich they be.   To note the beauty of the day,   And golden fields of corn survey;       Admire each pretty flow'r          With its sweet smell;   To praise their Maker, and to tell       The marks of his great pow'r.   To fly abroad like active bees,   Among the hedges and the trees,       To cull the dew that lies          On ev'ry blade,   From ev'ry blossom; till we lade       Our minds, as they their thighs.   Observe those rich and glorious things,   The rivers, meadows, woods, and springs,       The fructifying sun;          To note from far   The rising of each twinkling star       For us his race to run.   A little child these well perceives,   Who, tumbling in green grass and leaves,       May rich as kings be thought,          But there's a sight   Which perfect manhood may delight,       To which we shall be brought.   While in those pleasant paths we talk,   'Tis that tow'rds which at last we walk;       For we may by degrees          Wisely proceed   Pleasures of love and praise to heed,       From viewing herbs and trees.