Is't not a pity now, that tickling rheums Should ever tease the lungs and blear the fight Of oracles like these? Great pity too,
That, having wielded th' elements, and built A thousand systems, each in his own way, They fhould go out in fume, and be forgot? Ah! what is life thus fpent? and what are they But frantic who thus fpend it? all for smoke— Eternity for bubbles, proves at last
A fenfeless bargain. When I fee fuch games Play'd by the creatures of a Pow'r who fwears That he will judge the earth, and call the fool To a fharp reck❜ning that has liv'd in vain; And when I weigh this feeming wisdom well, And prove it in th' infallible refult
So hollow and fo falfe-I feel my heart Diffolve in pity, and account the learn'd, If this be learning, most of all deceiv'd. Great crimes alarm the confcience, but it fleeps While thoughtful man is plausibly amus❜d. Defend me, therefore, common fenfe, say I, From reveries fo airy, from the toil Of dropping buckets into empty wells, And growing old in drawing nothing up!
Twere well, fays one fage erudite, profound,
Terribly arch'd and acquiline his nofe, And over-built with molt impending brows,
'Twere well, could you permit the world to live As the world pleafes. What's the world to you?— Much. I was born of woman, and drew milk,
As fweet as charity, from human brealts, I think, articulate, I laugh and weep, And exercife all functions of a man, How then fhould I and any man that lives Be ftrangers to each other ? Pierce my vein, Take of the crimson ftream meand'ring there, And catechife it well; apply your glass,
Search it, and prove now if it be not blood Congenial with thine own: and, if it be, What edge of fubtlety canft thou fuppofe Keen enough, wife and skilful as thou art, To cut the link of brotherhood, by which One common Maker bound me to the kind? True; I am no proficient, I confefs, In arts like yours. I cannot call the swift And perilous lightnings from the angry clouds, And bid them hide themselves in earth beneath; I cannot analyse the air, nor catch
The parallax of yonder luminous point,
That feems half quench'd in the immense abyss. Such pow'rs I boaft not-neither can I reft
A filent witnefs of the headlong rage
Or heedlefs folly by which thousands die, Bone of my bone, and kindred fouls to mine.
God never meant that man fhould fcale the heav'ns By ftrides of human wisdom. In his works, Though wond'rous, he commands us in his word To feek Him rather, where his mercy fhines. The mind, indeed, enlighten'd from above, Views him in all; afcribes to the grand cause The grand effect; acknowledges with joy - His manner, and with rapture taftes his style. But never yet did philofophic tube, That brings the planets home into the eye Of obfervation, and difcovers, elfe
Not vifible, his family of worlds,
Discover him that rules them; fuch a veil Hangs over mortal eyes, blind from the birth, And dark in things divine. Full often, too, Our wayward intellect, the more we learn Of nature, overlooks her author more; From inftrumental causes proud to draw Conclufions retrograde, and mad mistake. But if his word once teach us, fhoot a ray Through all the heart's dark chambers, and reveal Truths undifcern'd, but by that holy light,
Then all is plain. Philofophy, baptiz'd In the pure fountain of eternal love, Has eyes indeed; and viewingall fhe fees As meant to indidcate a God to man,
Gives Him his praife, and forfeits not her own. Learning has born fuch fruit in other days On all her branches: piety has found
Friends in the friends of fcience, and true pray'r Has flow'd from lips wet with Caftalian dews. Such was thy wisdom, Newton, childlike fage! Sagacious reader of the works of God, And in his word fagacious. Such too thine, Milton, whofe genius had angelic wings, And fed on manna! And fuch thine, in whom Our British Themis gloried with just cause, Immortal Hale! for deep difcernment prais'd, And found integrity, not more than fam'd For fanctity of manners undefil'd.
All flesh is grafs, and all its glory fades Like the fair flow'r difheyell'd in the wind; Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream: The man we celebrate muft find a tomb, And we that worthip him, ignoble graves. Nothing is proof against the gen'ral curfe Of vanity, that feizes all below.
The only amaranthine flower on earth
Is virtue; th' only lafting treafure, truth. But what is truth? 'twas Pilate's question, put To Truth itself, that deign'd him no reply. And wherefore? will not God impart his light To them that afk it?-Freely-'tis his joy, His glory, and his nature, to impart. But to the proud, uncandid, infincere, Or negligent, inquirer, not a spark.
What's that which brings contempt upon a book, And him who writes it; tho' the style be neat, The method clear, and argument exact? That makes a minifter in holy things
The joy of many, and the dread of more, His name a theme for praife and for reproach?. That, while it gives us worth in God's account, Depreciates and undoes us in our own?
What pearl is it that rick men cannot buy, That learning is too proud to gather up ; But which the poor, and the defpis'd of all, Seek and obtain, and often find unfought? Tell me and I will tell thee what is truth.
O, friendly to the best pursuits of man, Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, Domeftic life in rural leifure pafs'd!
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