Who Know But He, Whose Hand The

The Lights And Shades, Whose Well-accorded Strife Gives All The Strength And Color Of Our Life.

And Each Blasphemer Quite Escape The Rod, Because The Insult's Not On Man, But God?

Trace Science, Then, With Modesty Thy Guide, First Strip Off All Her Equipage Of Pride, Deduct What Is But Vanity Or Dress, Or Learning's Luxury Or Idleness, Or Tricks, To Show The Stretch Of The Human Brain Mere Curious Pleasure Or Ingenious Pain.

The Hog That Ploughs Not, Not Obeys Thy Call, Lives On The Labours Of This Lord Of All.

But Blind To Former As To Future Fate, What Mortal Knows His Pre-existent State?