Or ask of yonder argent fields above,
Why Jove's såttelites are less than Jove?

of systems possible, if 'tis confest,
That wisdom infinite'must form the best;
Where all must full, or not coherent be,
And all that rise, rise in due degree;
Then, in the scale of reas’ning life, 'tis plain
There must be, somewhere, such a rank as m
And all the question, (wrangle e'er 80 long)
Is only this, if God bas plac'd him wrong?

Respeeting man, whatever wrong we call,
May, must be right, as relative to all.
In human works, though labor'd on with paid,
A thousand movements scaree one purpose ga
In God's, one single can its end produce,
Yet serves to second, too, some other use.
So man, who here seems principal alone,
Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown;
Touches some wheel, or verges to some geal;
'Tis but a part we see, and not the whole.
When the proud steed' shall know why man

restrains His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plaing;

When the dull ox, wby now he breaks the clod,
Is now a victim, and now Egypt's God;
Then shall man's pride and dullness comprehend
His actions', passions', being's use an end;
Why doing, suff’ring, check’d, impelld; and why
This hour a slave, the pext a deity.
Then say not man's imperfect, Heaven in fault;
Say rather, man's as perfect as he ought;
His knowledge measur'd to his state and place,
His time a moment, and a point his space.
If to be perfect in a certain sphere,
What matter, soon or late, or here, or there!
The blest to-day is as completely so,
As who began a thousand years ago.

Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate, All but the page prescrib'd, their present state: From brutes what men, from men what spirits

know, Or who could suffer being here below! The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play! Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flow'ry food, And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood. Oh blindness to the future! kindly giv'n,

That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heaven,
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall,
Atoms, or systems into ruin huld,
And now a bubble burst, and now a world!

Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar;
Wait the great teacher Death, and God adore!
What future bliss he gives not thee to know,
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast;
Man never is, but always to be blest:
The soul, uneasy, and confin'd from home,
Rests snd expatiates in a life to come.

Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor'd mind
Sees God in clouds, and hears him in the wind:
His soul proud science never taught to stray
Far as the solar walk, or milky way;
Yet simple nature to his hope has given,
Behind the cloud-top'd hill, a humbler leaven;
Some safer world, in depth of woods embrac'd,
Some happier island in the wat'ry waste,
Where slaves once more their native land behold,
No fiends torment, no christians thirst for gold.

To be, contents his natural desire, He asks no angel's wing, no seraph’s fire, But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company. Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense, Weigh thy opinion against Providence; Call imperfection what thou fanci'st such, Say, here he gives too little, there too much: Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust; Yet cry, if map's unhappy, God's unjust; If man alone engross not heaven's high care, Alone made perfect here, immortal there; Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod, Rejudge his justice, be the GOD of God! In pride, in reas’ning pride, our error lies; All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes, Men would be angels, angels would be gods. Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell, Aspiring to be angels, meu rebel; And who but wishes to invert the laws of order, sins against the Eternal Cause.

Ask for what end the heavenly bodies shine, Barth for whose uge? pride answers, "tis for mine:

For me kind nature wakes her genial power,
Suckles each herb, and spreads out ev'ry flower
Annual for me, the grape, the roše, renew
The juice nectarious, and the balmy dew:
For me the mine a thousand treasures brings;
For me health gushes from a thousand springs:
Seas-roll to waft me, suns to light me rise;
My lootstool earth, my canopy the skies."

But errs not 'nature from this gracious end, From burning suns when livid deaths descend, When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests

sweep Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep? “No, ('tis repli'd) the first almighty Cause Acts not by partial, but by gen'ral laws; Th'exceptions few; some change since all begar, And what created perfect?” Why then man? If the great end be human háppiness, Then nature deviates; anil can man do less? As much that end a constant course requires Of showers and sunshine, aś of man's desires; As much eternal springs and cloudless skies, As men forever terap’rate, calm and wise: If plagues or earthquakes break not heaven's

design,