Respecting man, whatever wrong we call,

May, must be right, as relative to all. In human works, though labored on with pain,

A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain;

In God's, one single can its end produce; 55 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. 60 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 Egypt's god; Then shall man's pride and dullness comprehend

65

His actions', passions', being's, use and end;

Why doing, suffering, checked, impelled; and why

This hour a slave, the next a deity.

Then say not man's imperfect, Heaven in fault;

Say rather, man's as perfect as he ought: 70

behold,

How often have I paused on every charm,
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topped the neigh-
boring hill,

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade

For talking age and whispering lovers made!

How often have I blest the coming day, 15 When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labor free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree,

While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old surveyed;

20

And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,

And sleights of art and feats of strength went round.

And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;

The dancing pair that simply sought re

bread,

To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,

To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till

morn;

She only left of all the harmless train, 135 The sad historian of the pensive plain.

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,

And still where many a garden flower grows wild;