"Brute beafts possess the hill, and shady wood;
"Much do the lakes, but more the ocean's flood
66 (Which fevers realms, and fhores divided leaves),
"Take from the land by interpofing waves;
"One third, by freezing cold and burning heat,
"Lies a deform'd, inhofpitable feat;
“The rest, unlabour'd, would by nature breed
"Wild brambles only, and the noxious weed,-
"Did not industrious man, with endless toil,
"Extort his food from the reluctant foil;
"Did not the farmer's fteel the furrow wound,
"And harrows tear the harvest from the ground,
"The earth would no fpontaneous fruits afford
"To man, her vain imaginary Lord.
"Oft', when the labouring hind has plough'd the field, "And forc'd the glebe unwillingly to yield, "When green and flowery Nature crowns his hope "With the gay promife of a plenteous crop, "The fruits (fad ruin !) perifh on the ground, "Burnt by the Sun, or by the deluge drown'd; "Or foon decay, by fnows immoderate chill'd,
By winds are blafted, or by lightning kill'd. "Nature, befides, the favage beast sustains, "Breeds in the hills the terror of the plains, "To man a fatal race. Could this be so, "Did gracious Gods difpofe of things below? "Their proper plagues with annual seasons come, “And deaths untimely blast us in the bloom. "Man at his birth (unhappy fon of grief!) "Is helpless caft on the wide coafts of life,
“In want of all things whence our comforts flow
"A fad and moving fpectacle of woe.
"Infants in ill-prefaging cries complain,
"As confcious of a coming life of pain.
"All things meantime to beafts kind Nature grants, "Prevents their fufferings, and fupplies their wants; "Brought forth with ease, they grow, and skip, and "No dangling nurfe, or jingling gewgaw, need; [feed, "In caves they lurk, or o'er the mountains range, "Nor ever through the year their garment change; 220 "Unvers'd in arms, and ignorant of war,
“They need no forts, and no invafion fear;
"Whate'er they want, from Nature's hand they gain "The life he gave, fhe watches to maintain."
Thus impotent in fenfe, though ftrong in rage, 225 The daring Roman does the Gods engage: But undifmay'd we face th' intrepid foe, Suftain his onfet, and thus ward the blow.
Suppofe defects in this terrestrial seat,
That Nature is not, as you urge, compleat;
That a divine and wife Artificer
Might greater wonders of his art confer,
And might with eafe on man, and man's abode,
More bounty, more perfection, have bestow'd;
If in this lower world he has not fhown
His utmost fkill, fay, has he therefore none?
We in productions arbitrary see
Marks of perfection, different in degree.
Though mafters now more skill, now lefs impart,
Yet are not all their works the works of art ?
Do poets ftill fublimer fubjects fing,
Still ftretch to Heaven a bold aspiring wing,
Nor e'er defcend to flocks and labouring fwains,
Frequent the floods, or range the humble plains?
Did, Grecian Phidias, all thy pieces shine
With equal beauty or, Apelles, thine?
Or Raphael's pencil never chufe to fall?
Say, are his works Transfigurations all?
Did Buonorota never build, O Rome,
A meaner ftructure, than thy wondrous dome ?
Though, in their works applauded as their beft,
Greater defign and genius are expreft,
Yet is there none acknowledg'd in the reft?
In all the parts of Nature's spacious fphere
Of art, ten thoufand miracles appear:
And will you not the Author's skill adore,
Because you think he might difcover more?
You own a watch th' invention of the mind,
Though for a fingle motion 'tis defign'd
As well as that, which is with greater thought,
With various springs, for various motions wrought.
An independent, wife, and conscious Cause,
Who freely acts by arbitrary laws,
Who at connexion and at order aims,
Creatures diftinguish'd in perfection frames.
Unconscious caufes only ftill impart
Their utmost skill, their utmoft power exert.
Thofe, which can freely chufe, difcern, and know,
In acting can degrees of vigour fhow,
And more or lefs of art or care bestow.
If all perfection were in all things fhown,
All beauty, all variety, were gone.
As this inferior habitable feat
By different parts is made one whole compleat ;
So our low world is only one of those,
Which the capacious universe compose.
Now to the univerfal whole advert;
The earth regard as of that whole a part,
In which wide frame more noble worlds abound;
Witnefs, ye glorious orbs, which hang around,
Ye fhining planets, that in æther stray,
And thou, bright lord and ruler of the day!
Witness, ye ftars, which beautify the skies,
How much do your vaft globes in height and fize,
In beauty and magnificence, outgo
Our ball of earth, that hangs in clouds below!
Between yourselves too is diftinction found,
Of different bulk, with different glory crown'd;
The people, which in your bright regions dwell,
Muft this low world's inhabitants excell i
And, fince to various planets they agree,
They from each other must distinguish'd be,
And own perfections different in degree.
When we on fruitful Nature's care reflect,
And her exhaustless energy respect,
That ftocks this globe, which you Lucretians call
The world's coarse dregs, which to the bottom fall,
With numerous kinds of life, and bounteous fills
With breathing guests the vallies, floods, and hills;
We may pronounce each orb sustains a race
Of living things adapted to the place.
Were the refulgent parts and most refin'd
Only to ferve the dark and base defign'd ?
Were all the stars, those beauteous realms of light,
At diftance only hung to fhine by night,
305 And with their twinkling beams to please our fight? How many roll in æther, which the
Could ne'er, till aided by the glass, defcry,
And which no commerce with the earth maintain ?
Are all thofe glorious empires made in vain ?
Now, as I faid, the globe terrestrial view
As of the whole a part, a mean one too.
Though 'tis not like th' ætherial worlds refin'd,
Yet is it juft, and finish'd in its kind;
Has all perfection which the place demands,
Where in coherence with the reft it ftands.
Were to your view the universe display'd,
And all the fcenes of nature open laid;
Could you their place, proportion, harmony,
Their beauty, order, and dependence, fee,
You'd grant our globe had all the marks of art,
All the perfection due to fuch a part,
Though not with luftre, or with magnitude,
Like the bright stars, or brighter fun, endued.
You oft' declaim on man's unhappy fate;
Infulting, oft' demand in this debate,
If the kind Gods could fuch a wretch create ?
But whence can this unhappiness arise?
You fay, as foon as born, he helpless lies,
And mourns his woes in ill-prefaging cries.
But does not Nature for the child prepare
The parent's love, the nurfe's tender care,
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