Early handwritten manuscript copy of “The Indian Philosopher, or Matches Made Above, But Broke in Coming Down,” a poem by celebrated English theologian, poet and hymn writer Isaac Watts (1674–1748). Originally composed in 1701 and first published in Watts's Horæ Lyricæ in 1706, the poem explores love, marriage, compatible souls and the search for an ideal partner through an imagined Indian philosopher speaking beside the Ganges.
The manuscript contains all ten stanzas of the poem, written in an old cursive hand across four pages, each approximately 6" × 3", now attached to backing paper. The copying date and identity of the scribe are unknown; the accompanying handwritten attribution to Watts and date of 1701 refer to the original composition rather than the date of this manuscript.
Condition: Heavily worn, with age toning, foxing, stains, edge losses and extensive splitting along all original fold lines. Portions of the manuscript are fragile or obscured by damage. Please examine all photographs carefully.
An interesting historical literary manuscript for collectors of Isaac Watts, early English poetry, handwritten verse, commonplace-book material and 18th-century literature. This is a handwritten copy of Watts's published poem, not an autograph manuscript in the author's own hand.
By Isaac Watts — composed September 3, 1701
1
Why should our joys transform to pain?
Why should 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.
2
In vain I sought the wondrous cause,
Ranged the wide fields of nature's laws,
And urged the schools in vain;
Then deep in thought, within my breast,
My soul retired, and slumber dressed
A bright instructive scene.
3
O'er the broad lands and across 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 designed.
4
Hard by, a venerable priest,
Risen with his god, the sun, from rest,
Awoke his morning song;
Thrice he conjured the murmuring stream;
The birth of souls was all his theme,
And half divine his tongue.
5
He sang of the eternal rolling flame,
That vital mass, still the same,
That does all our minds compose;
But shaped in twice ten thousand frames,
Thence differing souls of differing names
And jarring tempers rose.
6
The mighty power that formed the mind
One mould for every two designed,
And blessed the newborn pair:
"This shall be a match for this," he said;
Then down he sent the souls he made
To seek their bodies here.
7
But parting from their warm abode,
They lost their fellows on the road,
And never joined their hands:
Ah, cruel chance and crossing fates!
Our eastern souls have dropped their mates
On Europe's barbarous lands.
8
Happy the youth who finds the bride
Whose birth is to his own allied,
The sweetest joy of life:
But oh, the crowds of wretched souls,
Fettered to minds of different moulds,
And chained to eternal strife!
9
Thus sang the wondrous Indian bard;
My soul with vast attention heard,
While Ganges ceased to flow:
"Sure then," I cried, "might I but see
That gentle nymph that twinned with me,
I might be happy too."
10
"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."