THE INDIAN PHILOSOPHER
 OR Matches made Above, But Broke in coming down.

 Words by Isaac Watts, 3 September 1701, in Lyric Poems,
  dedicated to Henry Bendish 24 August 1705.
 Tune: GANGES, Missouri Harmony, p. 58 

   WHY should our Joys transform to Pain?
   Why gentle Hymen's Silken Chain
    A Plague of Iron prove?
   BENDISH, 'tis strange the Charm that binds
   Millions of Hands should leave their Minds
    At such a loose from Love.

   In vain I sought the wondrous Cause,
   Rang'd the wide Fields of Natures Laws,
    And urg'd the Schools in vain;
   Then deep in Thought, within my Breast
   My Soul retir'd, and Slumber drest
    A bright Instructive Scene.

   O'er the broad Lands and 'cross the Tide
   On Fancy's Airy Horse I ride,
    (Sweet Rapture of the Mind)
   Till on the Banks of Ganges Flood
   In a tall Ancient Grove I stood
    For Sacred Use design'd.

   Hard by a Venerable Priest
   Ris'n with his God--the Sun from Rest
    Awoke his Morning-Song;
   Thrice he conjur'd the Murm'ring Stream;
   The Birth of Souls was all his Theme,
    And half Divine his Tongue.

   He Sang, "th' Eternal rolling Flame,
   That Vital Mass, that still the same
    Does all our Minds compose;
   But shap'd in twice ten thousand Frames,
   Thence differing Souls of differing Names,
    And Jarring Tempers rose.

   The mighty Power that form'd the Mind
   One Mould for every Two design'd,
    And bless'd the New-born Pair:
   This be a Match for This, he said,
   Then down he sent the Souls he made
    To seek them Bodies here:

   But parting from their warm Abode
   They lost their Fellows on the Road,
    And never joyn'd their Hands:
   Ah cruel Chance, and crossing Fates!
   Our Eastern Souls have dropt their Mates
    On Europe's Barbarous Lands.

   Happy the Youth that finds the Bride
   Whose Birth is to his own ally'd,
    The Sweetest Joy of Life:
   But oh, the Crowds of Wretched Souls
   Fetter'd to Minds of different Moulds,
    And chain'd t' Eternal Strife!"

   Thus Sang the wondrous Indian Bard,
   My Soul with vast Attention heard,
    While Ganges ceas'd to flow:
   Sure then, I cry'd, might I but see
   That gentle Nymph that twinn'd with me,
    I may be Happy too.

   Some Courteous Angel tell me where,
   What distant Lands this unknown Fair
    Or distant Seas detain?
   Swift as the Wheel of Nature rolls
   I'd fly to meet and mingle Souls,
    And wear the Joyful Chain.