Classic Poem

PART I

While Nature's gifts appear a jarring strife
And evil balances the good in life,
While varied scenes in man's estate disclose
Delusive pleasure mixed with surer woes,
Bewildered reason in the dubious maze
Of human lot a feeble wanderer strays,
Sees destined ills on virtue vent their force,
Dash all her bliss, and wonders whence the source.

Sure, Heaven is good; no farther proof we need —
In nature's page the doubtless text we read.
Lo! at thy feet earth's verdant carpet spread;
Heaven's azure vault o'ercanopies thy head,
For thee the varied seasons grace the plain,
The vernal floweret and the golden grain;
For thee all-wise Beneficence on high
Bade day's bright monarch lighten in the sky,
And night's pale chariot o'er the vault of blue
With silver wheels its silent path pursue.
Yes, Heaven is good, the source of ample bliss:
In spite of ills, creation teaches this.
The simple, yet important, truth to spy
We need no Plato's soul, no sage's eye;
A native faith each distant clime pervades,
And sentiment the voice of reason aids.
The shuddering tenant of the Arctic Pole
Adores revolving suns that round him roll:
No sceptic bosom doubts the hand of heaven;
And, though misplaced, still adoration 's given.
Search distant climates at the thirsty line —
There still devotion thanks a power divine;
Still, though no Science treads on Libyan plains,
The inborn gratitude to God remains;
And shall the Soul, by Science taught to view
Truth more refined, call inborn faith untrue?
No; should misfortune cloud thy latest days
Still view this truth through life's perplexing maze;
While Nature teaches — let not doubt intrude,
But own with gratitude that God is good.

Yet whence, methinks, repining mortal cries,
If Heaven be good, can human ill arise?
Man's feeble race what countless ills await!
Ills self-created, ills ordained by fate!
While yet warm youth the breast with passion fires
Hope whispers joy, and promised bliss inspires, —
In dazzling colours future life arrays,
And many a fond ideal scene displays.
The sanguine zealot promised good pursues,
Nor finds that wish but still the chase renews:
Still lured by hope he wheels the giddy round
And grasps a phantom never to be found.
Too soon the partial bliss of youth is flown,
Nor future bliss nor hope itself is known;
No more ideal prospects charm the breast,
Life stands in dread reality confessed —
A mingled scene of aggravated woes
Where pride and passion every curse disclose!

Cease, erring man! nor arrogant presume
To blame thy lot or Heaven's unerring doom!
He who thy being gave, in skill divine
Saw what was best, and bade that best be thine.
But count thy wants, and all thine evils name —
Still He that bade them be is free from blame.
Tell all the imperfections of thy state —
The wrongs of man to man — the wrongs of fate:
Still reason's voice shall justify them all,
And bid complaint to resignation fall.

If Heaven be blamed that imperfection's thine,
As just to blame that man is not divine.
Of all the tribes that fill this earthly scheme
Thy sphere is highest, and thy gifts supreme.
Of mental gifts, intelligence is given;
Conscience is thine, to point the will of Heaven;
The spur of action, passions are assigned;
And fancy — parent of the soul refined.
'Tis true thy reason's progress is but slow,
And passion, if misguided, tends to woe;
'Tis true thy gifts are finite in extent —
What then? can nought that's finite give content?
Leave then, proud man, this scene of earthly chance;
Aspire to spheres supreme, and be a god at once!

No! you reply; superior powers I claim,
Though not perfection or a sphere supreme;
In reason more exalted let me shine;
The lion's strength, the fox's art be mine,
The bull's firm chest, the steed's superior grace,
The stag's transcendent swiftness in the chase.
Say, why were these denied if Heaven be kind
And full content to human lot assigned?

The reason's simple: in the breast of man
To soar still upward dwells the eternal plan, —
A wish innate, and kindly placed by Heaven,
That man may rise through means already given.
Aspiring thus to mend the ills of fate,
To find new bliss and cure the human state,
In varied souls its varied shapes appear:
Here fans desire of wealth; of honour there;
Here urges Newton nature to explore,
And promises delight by knowing more;
And there in Caesar lightens up the flame
To mount the pinnacle of human fame.
In spite of fate it fires the active mind,
Keeps man alive, and serves the use assigned;
Without it none would urge a favourite bent,
And man were useless but for discontent!

Seek not perfection, then, of higher kind,
Since man is perfect in the state assigned;
Nor, perfect as probation can allow,
Accuse thy lot although imperfect now.

PART II

But grant that man is justly frail below,
Still imperfection is not all our woe.
If final good be God's eternal plan,
Why is the power of ill bestowed on man?
Why is revenge an inborn passion found?
And why the means to spread that passion round?
Whence in man's breast the constant wish we find
That tends to work the ruin of his kind?
Whence flows the ambition of a Caesar's soul,
Or Sylla's wish to ravage and control?
Whence, monster vice! originates thy course?
Art thou from God? is purity thy source?
No! let not blasphemy that cause pursue!
A simpler source in man himself we view.
If man, endowed with freedom, basely act,
Can such from blameless purity detract?
An ample liberty of choice is given;
Man chooses ill; — and where the fault of Heaven?
Say not the human heart is prone to sin —
Virtue by nature reigns as strong within;
The passions, if perverted, tend to woe —
What then? did God perversion, too, bestow?
No! blame thyself if guilt distract thy lot;
Man may be virtuous — Heaven forbids it not.
Blind as thou art in this imperfect state,
Still conscious virtue might support thy fate;
Give reason strength thy passions to control —
Vice is not inborn: drive it from thy soul!
Yet you reply — Though ample freedom's mine,
The fault of evil still is half divine:
If Heaven foresaw that, from the scope of choice,
Perversion, vice, and misery should rise,
Why then on man, if prone to good, bestow
The possibility of working woe?
Ask not — 'tis answered: arrogantly blind
To scan the secrets of the eternal Mind, —
If Heaven be just, then reason tells us this,
That man by merit must secure his bliss.
Cease, then, with evil to upbraid the skies:
That to the vice of mortals owes its rise.
Is God to blame if man's inhuman heart
Deny the boon that pity should impart?
If patriots to brutality should change
And grasp the lawless dagger of revenge?
If frantic murderers mingle from afar
To palliate carnage by the name of war?
If pampered pride disdain a sufferer's fate
And spurn imploring misery from her gate?
No! Heaven hath placed compassion in the breast;
The means are given, and ours is all the rest.
But what, to ease thy sorrow, shall avail
For human lot the misanthropic wail?
Since all complain, and all are vicious, too,
Each hates the vile pursuit, but all pursue, —
Let actions then, and not complaints, prevail!
Let each his part withdraw — the whole shall fail.

PART III

Yet, grant that error must result from choice,
Still man has ills besides the ills of vice —
Griefs unforeseen, disease's pallid train,
And death, sad refuge from a world of pain!
Disastrous ills each element attend,
And certain woes with every blessing blend.
Lo! where the stream in quivering silver plays!
There slippery fate upon its verge betrays.
Yon sun, that feebly gilds the western sky,
In warmer climes bids arid nature die.
Disgusted virtue quits her injured reign, —
Vice comes apace, and folly leads her train.
But not alone, if blissful all thy lot,
Were vice pursued and gratitude forgot.
Defects still further in the scheme we view,
Since virtue, willing, scarce could men pursue.
Say, if each mortal were completely blest,
Where could the power of aiding woe exist?
If at the gate no suppliant sufferer stand
Could e'er compassion stretch her liberal hand?
Did never winter chill the freezing waste
Could kindness e'er invite the shuddering guest?
Which boots, if good the changeless lot of man,
The philanthropic wish, the patriot's plan?
Or what could goodness do? Nought else, 'tis plain,
But rage to bridle, passion to restrain —
A virtue negative, scarce worth the name,
Far from the due reward that generous actions claim!
Still less the scope of fortitude we find,
Were pain dismissed and fortune ever kind.
The path of merit, then, let ills be viewed,
And own their power, if virtue be thy good.
Nor on that scheme let lawless wishes run,
Where vice had all her scope and virtue none;
But rest contented with thy Maker's plan
Who ills ordained as means of good to man.
Nor, midst complaints of hardship, be forgot
The mingled pleasures of thy daily lot.

What though the transient gusts of sorrow come,
Though passion vex, or penury benumb?
Still bliss, sufficient to thy hope, is given
To warm thy heart with gratitude to Heaven;
Still mortal reason darts sufficient day
To guide thy steps through life's perplexing way;
Still conscience tells — 'tis all we need to know —
Virtue to seek and vice to shun below.
Hear, then, the warnings of her solemn voice,
And seek the plaudit of a virtuous choice.