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Gradations just, has thy pervading foul
Look'd through? or can a part contain the whole ?

Is the great chain, that draws all to agree,
And drawn supports, upheld by God, or thee?
II. Presumptuous Man ! the reason wouldft

thou find,
Why form'd fo' weak, so little, and so blind?
First, if thou canst, the harder reason 'guess,
Why form'd no weaker, blinder, and no less.
Alk of thy mother earth, why oaks are made
Taller or stronger than the weeds they thade
Or ask of yonder argent fields above,
Why Jove's satellites 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 rises, rise in due degree ;
Then in the scale of reas'ning life, 'tis plain,
There must be, somewhere, such a rank as Man:

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And all the question (wrangle e'er fo long)
Is only this, if God has plac'd him wrong?

Respecting Man, whatever wrong we call,
May, must be right, as relative to all.
In human works, tho' labour'd on with pain,
A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain;
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 goal;
'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.
When the proud steed shall know why Man

restrains His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains; When the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod, Is now a victim, and now Ægypt's god : Then shall Man's pride and dulness comprehend His actions', paflions', being's, use and end;

Why doing, suff’ring, check'd, impell’d; and why This hour a slave, the next a deity.

Then say not Man's imperfect, Heav'n 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, foon or late, or here or there ; The bleft to day is as completely so, As who began a thousand years ago.

III. Heav'n 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 Heav'n :
Who fees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall,
Atoms or systems into ruin hurld,
And now a bubble burst, and now a world.

Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions foar;
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 breaft:
Man never Is, but always To be bleft:
The soul, uneasy and confin'd, from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
Lo, the

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-topt bill, an bumbler heav'n,

poor

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Dawiyyid z engrai by M. Rechters

Lo the poor Indian.whose unluturil mind Sealpred in clouds, or hear him in the wino,

Epille 1 1.99.

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