Classic Poem

As at their work two weavers sat,
Beguiling time with friendly chat;
They touch'd upon the price of meat,
So high, a weaver scarce could eat.

" What with my brats and sickly wife, "
Quoth Dick, " I'm almost tired of life;
" So hard my work, so poor my fare,
" 'Tis more than mortal man can bear.

" How glorious is the rich man's state!
" His house so fine! his wealth so great!
" Heaven is unjust, you must agree,
" Why all to him? why none to me?

" In spite of what the scripture teaches,
" In spite of all the parson preaches,
" This world (indeed I've thought so long)
" Is ruled, methinks, extremely wrong.

" Where'er I look, howe'er I range,
" 'Tis all confused, and hard, and strange
" The good are troubled and oppress'd,
" And all the wicked are the bless'd. "

Quoth John, " Our ignorance is the cause
" Why thus we blame our Maker's laws;
" Parts of his ways alone we know,
" 'Tis all that man can see below.

" Seest thou that carpet, not half done,
" Which thou, dear Dick, hast well begun?
" Behold the wild confusion there,
" So rude the mass it makes one stare!

" A stranger, ignorant of the trade,
" Would say, no meaning's there convey'd;
" For where's the middle, where's the border?
" Thy carpet now is all disorder. "

Quoth Dick, " My work is yet in bits,
" But still in every part it fits;
" Besides, you reason like a lout,
" Why, man, that carpet's inside out. "

" Says John, " Thou say'st the thing I mean,
" And now I hope to cure thy spleen;
" This world, which clouds thy soul with doubt,
" Is but a carpet inside out.

" As when we view these shreds and ends,
" We know not what the whole intends;
" So when on earth things look but odd,
" They're working still some scheme of God.

" No plan, no pattern, can we trace,
" All wants proportion, truth, and grace;
" The motley mixture we deride,
" Nor see the beauteous upper side.

" But when we reach that world of light,
" And view those works of God aright,
" Then shall we see the whole design,
" And own the workman is divine.

" What now seem random strokes, will there
" All order and design appear;
" Then shall we praise what here we spurn'd,
" For then the carpet shall be turn'd. "

" Thou'rt right, " quoth Dick, " no more I'll grumble
" That this sad world's so strange a jumble;
" My impious doubts are put to flight,
" For my own carpet sets me right. "