Pleas'd to the last he crops the flowery food,
And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood.
O 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 hurl'd,

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 bless'd.
The soul, uneasy and confined from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

Lo, the poor Indian whose untutor'd mind
Sees God in clouds, or 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 giv'n,
Behind the cloud-top'd hill, an humbler heav'n;
Some safer world in depth of woods embraced,
Some happier island in the watery waste,
Where slaves once more their native land behold,
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold.
To be content 's 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 fancy'st such;
Say here he gives too little, there too much;

Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust,
Yet cry, if man'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 reasoning 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, men rebel :
And who but wishes to invert the laws
Of order, sins against th' Eternal Cause,

Pope.

WISDOM PROCLAIMING A PROVIDENCE TO MAN.

Lo! now the ways of Heaven's eternal King
To man are open!

Review them and adore! Hear the loud voice
Of Wisdom sounding in her works!- Attend,
Ye sons of men! ye children of the dust,
Be wise! Lo! I was present, when the Sire
Of Heav'n pronounc'd his fiat; when his eye
Glanc'd through the gulf of darkness, and his hand
Fashion'd the rising universe :—I saw,

O'er the fair lawns, the heaving mountains raise
Their pine-clad spires; and down the shaggy cliff
I gave the rill to murmur. The rough mounds
That bound the madd'ning deep; the storm that
Along the desert; the volcano fraught [roars
With burning brimstone ;--I prescribe their ends,
I rule the rushing winds, and, on their wings

Triumphant, walk the tempest.-To my call
Obsequious bellows the red bolt, that tears
The cloud's thin mantle, when the gushing show'r
Descending copious bids the desert bloom.

I gave
to man's dark search superior light;
And clear'd dim Reason's misty view, to mark
His pow'rs, as through revolving ages tried,
They rose not to his Maker. Thus prepar'd
To know how distant from his narrow ken
The truths by Heav'n reveal'd, my hand display'd
The plan fair-opening, where each nobler view,
That swells th' expanding heart; each glorious
hope,

That points ambition to its goal; each aim,
That stirs, exalts, and animates desire;
Pours on the mind's rapt sight a noon-tide ray.
'Nor less in life employ'd, 'tis mine to raise

The desolate of heart; to bend the brow

Of stubborn pride, to bid reluctant įre

Subside; to tame rude nature to the rein

Of virtue. What though, screen'd from mortal view,

I walk the deep'ning gloom? What though my ways,
Remote from thought's bewilder'd search,are wrapt
In triple darkness?--Yet I work the springs
Of life, and to the general good direct

Th' obsequious means to move. O ye, who, toss'd
On life's tumultuous ocean, eye the shore,
Yet far remov'd; and with the happy hour,
When slumber on her downy couch shall lull
Your cares to sweet repose; yet bear awhile,
And I will guide you to the balmy climes
Of rest; will lay you by the silver stream
Crown'd with elysian bow'rs, where
peace extends

Her blooming olive, and the tempest pours

Its killing blasts no more.' Thus Wisdom speaks
To man; thus calls him through the external form
Of nature, through Religion's fuller noon,

Through life's bewild'ring mazes; to observe
A PROVIDENCE IN ALL.

Ogilvie.

THE PROSPERITY OF VICE NO JUST OBJECTION TO
THE WISDOM OF PROVIDENCE.

An! why, thy thought demands, when Virtue feels
Thy yoke, severe Adversity! why reigns
Triumphant Vice, nor dreads th' avenging doom
Of Heav'n; but, wanton in the spoils of pow'r,
Sports in gay frolic down the tide of time,
Nor dreams of future wo?-Is he then bless'd
Alone, who riots in the feast; who sails

Loose in the robe of luxury, and bears

His front to Heav'n, as if his mind defied [thought
Its frown?-Ah blind to reason! whose weak
Sees not, the just severity that saves

The good, reclaims not error. To persist
Firm in the path of right, when all within
Is calm; or wand'ring from its side, to start,
Alarm'd in time by some awak'ning voice,
And turn, is easy:-but the man whose step
Far through the devious waste has wander'd wild,
Regains not, seeks not to regain the path
Long lost; his course by perseverance form'd,
His doubts by habit reconcil'd. What once
He wish'd, now self-deceived, his willing mind
Receives as substance, and the phantom mocks
With empty smiles his void embrace no more.

Repines then mutt'ring thy presumptuous tongue,
That Heav'n's suspended wrath allows the wretch
An hour to triumph? that the God who counts
His number'd years a moment, at thy call
Points not his thunder to the guilty head,
Nor bids his lightnings flash? Know, if the good
Through life should suffer, in that scanty span
Are all his woes compris'd: if Vice exults,
That span contains its happiness. Should he
Who pitying snatches from Temptation's snare
The just, as him whom yon devouring wave
Has mantled; should his justice thus have claim'd
The wretch, yet reeking from his brother's blood,
An instant victim: as the one enjoys

The prize of virtue, and no deep'ning stain
Sullied his life; the other in the gulf

Of black perdition must have wak'd; no time
For mercy left; for penitence, for pray'r,
For pardon none: his crimes yet unaton'd
From Heav'n demanding vengeance. But the hand
Of Goodness spares him, that repentant tears
May ease the feeling heart, and Justice drop
Her claim; or, still relentless, that the stroke
May fall, when his full cup o'erflows with ill.

Ogilvie.

SOLILOQUY ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL.
Ir must be so-Plato, thou reason'st well-
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?

Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,