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Let earth unbalanc'd from her orbit fly,
Planets and stars run lawless through the sky;
Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurl'd,
Being on being wreck’d, and world on world ;
Heaven's whole foundations to their centre nod,
And nature trembles to the throne of God.
All this dread order break-for whom? for thee ?
Vile worm !-oh madness! pride! impiety!

What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread,
Or hand, to toil, aspir'd to be the head ?
What if the head, the eye, or ear repin'd
To serve mere engines to the ruling mind ?
Just as absurd for any part to claim
To be another, in this gen'ral frame :
Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains,
The great directing mind of all ordains.

All are but parts of one stupendous whole,
Whose body nature is, and God the soul ;
That, chang'd through all, and yet in all the same ;
Great in the earth, as in the ethereal frame ;
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze,
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees,
Lives through all life, extends through all extent,
Spreads undivided, operates unspent ;
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part,
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart;
As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns,
As the rapt seraph, that adores and burns :
To him no high, no low, no great, no small ;
He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all.

Cease then, nor order imperfection name : Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. Know thy own point : This kind, this due degree Of blindness, weakness, heaven bestows on thec. Submit.-In this, or any other sphere, Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear : Safe in the hand of one disposing pow'r, Or in the natal, or the mortal hour.

All nature is but art, unknown to thee ;
All chance, direction, which thou canst not see ;
All discord, harmony not understood ;
All partial evil, universal good :
And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite,
One truth is clear, Whatever is, is right.


Oh blind to truth, and God's whole scheme below, Who fancy bliss to vice, to virtue woe! Who sees and follows that great scheme the best, Best knows the blessing, and will most be blest. But fools, the good alone unhappy call, For ills or accidents that chance to all. See Falkland dies, the virtuous and the just ! See godlike Turenne prostrate on the dust! See Sidney bleeds amid the martial strife! Was this their virtue, or contempt of life? Say, was it virtue, more tho' heaven ne'er gave, Lamented Digby! sunk thee to the grave? Tell me, if virtue made the son expire, Why, full of days and honour, lives the sire ? Why drew Marseilles' good bishop purer breath, When nature sicken'd, and each gale was death? Or why so long in life if long can be) Lent Heaven a parent to the poor and me?

What makes all physical or moral ill ? There deviates nature, and here wanders will. God sends not ill; if rightly understood, Or partial ill is universal good, Or change admits, or nature lets it fall, Short, and but rare, till man improv'd it all. We just as wisely might of Heaven complain That righteous Abel was destroy'd by Cain, As that the virtuous son is ill at ease, When his lewd father gave the dire disease. Think we, like some weak prince, th’ Eternal Cause, Prone for his fav'rites to reverse bis laws ?

Shall burning Etna, if a sage requires,
Forget to thunder, and recall her fires ?
On air or sea new motions be imprest,
Oh blameless Bethel ! to relieve thy breast?
When the loose mountain trembles from on high,
Shall gravitation cease, if you go by ?
Or some old temple, nodding to its fall,
For Chartres' head reserve the hanging wall ?

But still this world (so fitted for the knave)
Contents us not. A better shall we have ?
A kingdom of the just then let it be:
But first consider how those just agree.
The good must merit God's peculiar care ;
But who, but God, can tell us who they are ?
One thinks on Calvin heaven's own spirit fell ;
Another deems him instrument of hell;
If Calvin feel heaven's blessing, or its rod,
This cries, there is, and that, there is no God.
What shocks one part will edify the rest,
Nor with one system can they all be blest.
The very best will variously incline,
And what rewards your virtue, punish mine.
Whatever is, is right.—This world 'tis true,
Was made for Cæsar-but for Titus too :
And which more blest? who chain'd his country, say,
Or he whose virtue sigh’d to lose a day?
"But sometimes virtue starves, while vice is fed,
What then? Is the reward of virtue bread?
That, vice may merit, 'tis the price of toil ;
The knave deserves it, when he tills the soil,
The knave deserves it when he tempts the main,
Where folly fights for kings, or dives for gain.
The good man may be weak, be indolent :
Nor is his claim to plenty, but content.
But grant him riches, your demand is o'er ;
• No-shall the good want health, the good want power?'
Add health, and power, and ev'ry earthly thing.
"Why bounded power? why private? why no king ?'

Nay, why external for internal giv'n ?
Why is not man a god, and earth a heaven?
Who ask and reason thus, will scarce conceive
God gives enough, while he has more to give :
Immense the power, immense were the demand ;
Say, at what part of nature will they stand ?

What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy,
The soul's calm sunshine, and the heart-felt joy,
Is virtue's prize : A better would you fix ?
Then give humility a coach and six,
Justice a conqu’ror's sword, or truth a gown,
Or public spirit its great cure, a crown.
Weak, foolish man! will Heaven reward us there
With the same trash mad mortals wish for here?
The boy and man an individual makes,
Yet sigh’st thou now for apples and for cakes?
Go, like the Indian, in another life
Expect thy dog, thy bottle, and thy wife,
As well as dream such trifles are assign'd,
As toys and empires, for a god-like mind.
Rewards, that either would to virtue bring
No joy, or be destructive of the thing :
How oft by these at sixty are undone
The virtues of a saint at twenty-one !
To whom can riches give repute, or trust,
Content, or pleasure, but the good and just ?
Judges and senates have been bought for gold,
Esteem and love were never to be sold.
Oh fool! to think God hates the worthy mind,
The lover and the love of human-kind,
Whose life is healthful, and whose conscience clear,
Because he wants a thousand pounds a year.

Honour and shame from no condition rise ;
Act well your part, there all the honour lies.
Fortune in men has some small diff'rence made,
One fiaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade;
The cobbler apron'd, and the parson gown'd,
The friar hooded, and the monarch crown'd.

'What differ more (you cry) than crown and cowl ?'
I'll tell you, friend ! a wise man and a fool.
You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk,
Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk,
Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow,
The rest is all but leather or prunella.

Stuck o'er with titles, and hung round with strings,
That thou may'st be by kings, or whores of kings,
Boast the pure blood of an illustrious race,
In quiet flow from Lucrece to Lucrece:
But by your father's worth if yours you rate,
Count me those only who were good and great.
Go! if your ancient, but ignoble blood
Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood,
Go! and pretend your family is young,
Nor own your fathers have been fools so long.
What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards ?
Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards.

Look next on greatness : say where greatness lies, Where, but among the heroes and the wise ? Heroes are much the same, the point 's agreed, From Macedonia's madman to the Swede; The whole strange purpose of their lives to find, Or make, an enemy of all mankind ! Not one looks backward, onward still he goes, Yet ne'er looks forward further than his nose. No less alike the politic and wise ; All sly slow things, with circumspective eyes : Men in their loose unguarded hours they take, Not that themselves are wise, but others weak. But grant that those can conquer, these can cheat ; 'Tis phrase absurd to call a villain great : Who wickedly is wise, or madly brave, Is but the more a fool, the more a knave. Who noble ends by noble means obtains, Or failing, smiles in exile or in chains, Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed Like Socrates, that man is great indeed.

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