Better for Us, perhaps, it might appear, 165 Were there all harmony, all virtue here; That never air or ocean felt the wind; That never pa.s.sion discompos'd the mind.

But ALL subsists by elemental strife; And Pa.s.sions are the elements of Life. 170 The gen'ral ORDER, since the whole began, Is kept in Nature, and is kept in Man.

VI. What would this Man? Now upward will he soar, And little less than Angel, would be more; Now looking downwards, just as griev'd appears 175 To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears.

Made for his use all creatures if he call, Say what their use, had he the pow'rs of all?

Nature to these, without profusion, kind, The proper organs, proper pow'rs a.s.sign'd; 180 Each seeming want compensated of course, Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force; All in exact proportion to the state; Nothing to add, and nothing to abate.

Each beast, each insect, happy in its own: 185 Is Heav'n unkind to Man, and Man alone?

Shall he alone, whom rational we call, Be pleas'd with nothing, if not bless'd with all?

The bliss of Man (could Pride that blessing find) Is not to act or think beyond mankind; 190 No pow'rs of body or of soul to share, But what his nature and his state can bear.

Why has not Man a microscopic eye?

For this plain reason, Man is not a Fly.

Say what the use, were finer optics giv'n, 195 T' inspect a mite, not comprehend the heav'n?

Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o'er, To smart and agonize at every pore?

Or quick effluvia darting thro' the brain, Die of a rose in aromatic pain? 200 If Nature thunder'd in his op'ning ears, And stunn'd him with the music of the spheres, How would he wish that Heav'n had left him still The whisp'ring Zephyr, and the purling rill?

Who finds not Providence all good and wise, 205 Alike in what it gives, and what denies?

VII. Far as Creation's ample range extends, The scale of sensual, mental pow'rs ascends: Mark how it mounts, to Man's imperial race, From the green myriads in the peopled gra.s.s: 210 What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme, The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam: Of smell, the headlong lioness between, And hound sagacious on the tainted green: Of hearing, from the life that fills the Flood, 215 To that which warbles thro' the vernal wood: The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine!

Feels at each thread, and lives along the line: In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew? 220 How Instinct varies in the grov'lling swine, Compar'd, half-reas'ning elephant, with thine!

'Twixt that, and Reason, what a nice barrier, For ever sep'rate, yet for ever near!

Remembrance and Reflection how ally'd; 225 What thin part.i.tions Sense from Thought divide: And Middle natures, how they long to join, Yet never pa.s.s th' insuperable line!

Without this just gradation, could they be Subjected, these to those, or all to thee? 230 The pow'rs of all subdu'd by thee alone, Is not thy Reason all these pow'rs in one?

VIII. See, thro' this air, this ocean, and this earth, All matter quick, and bursting into birth.

Above, how high, progressive life may go! 235 Around, how wide! how deep extend below!

Vast chain of Being! which from G.o.d began, Natures ethereal, human, angel, man, Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see, No gla.s.s can reach; from Infinite to thee, 240 From thee to Nothing.--On superior pow'rs Were we to press, inferior might on ours: Or in the full creation leave a void, Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroy'd: From Nature's chain whatever link you strike, 245 Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike.

And, if each system in gradation roll Alike essential to th' amazing Whole, The least confusion but in one, not all That system only, but the Whole must fall. 250 Let Earth unbalanc'd from her orbit fly, Planets and Suns run lawless thro' the sky; Let ruling Angels from their spheres be hurl'd, Being on Being wreck'd, and world on world; Heav'n's whole foundations to their centre nod, 255 And Nature tremble to the throne of G.o.d.

All this dread ORDER break--for whom? for thee?

Vile worm!--Oh Madness! Pride! Impiety!

IX. What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread, Or hand, to toil, aspir'd to be the head? 260 What if the head, the eye, or ear repin'd To serve mere engines to the ruling Mind?

Just as absurd for any part to claim To be another, in this gen'ral frame: Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains, 265 The great directing MIND of ALL ordains.

All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body Nature is, and G.o.d the soul; That, chang'd thro' all, and yet in all the same; Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame; 270 Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, Lives thro' all life, extends thro' all extent, Spreads undivided, operates unspent; Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, 275 As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart: As full, as perfect, in vile Man that mourns, As the rapt Seraph that adores and burns: To him no high, no low, no great, no small; He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. 280

X. Cease then, nor ORDER Imperfection name: Our proper bliss depends on what we blame.

Know thy own point: This kind, this due degree Of blindness, weakness, Heav'n bestows on thee.

Submit.--In this, or any other sphere, 285 Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear: Safe in the hand of one disposing Pow'r, Or in the natal, or the mortal hour.

All Nature is but Art, unknown to thee; All Chance, Direction, which thou canst not see; 290 All Discord, Harmony not understood; All partial Evil, universal Good: And, spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite, One truth is clear, WHATEVER IS, IS RIGHT.

EPISTLE TO DR ARBUTHNOT

Advertis.e.m.e.nt to the first publication of this _Epistle_

This paper is a sort of bill of complaint, begun many years since, and drawn up by s.n.a.t.c.hes, as the several occasions offered. I had no thoughts of publishing it, till it pleased some Persons of Rank and Fortune (the Authors of _Verses to the Imitator of Horace_, and of an _Epistle to a Doctor of Divinity from a n.o.bleman at Hampton Court_) to attack, in a very extraordinary manner, not only my Writings (of which, being public, the Public is judge), but my P_erson, Morals_, and _Family_, whereof, to those who know me not, a truer information may be requisite. Being divided between the necessity to say something of _myself_, and my own laziness to undertake so awkward a task, I thought it the shortest way to put the last hand to this Epistle. If it have any thing pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please, the _Truth_ and the _Sentiment_; and if any thing offensive, it will be only to those I am least sorry to offend, _the vicious_ or _the ungenerous_.

Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a circ.u.mstance but what is true; but I have, for the most part, spared their _Names_, and they may escape being laughed at, if they please.

I would have some of them know, it was owing to the request of the learned and candid Friend to whom it is inscribed, that I make not as free use of theirs as they have done of mine. However, I shall have this advantage, and honour, on my side, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can possibly be done by mine, since a nameless character can never be found out, but by its _truth_ and _likeness_.

P.

P. shut, shut the door, good John! fatigu'd, I said, Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.

The Dog-star rages! nay't is past a doubt, All Bedlam, or Parna.s.sus, is let out: Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, 5 They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

What walls can guard me, or what shade can hide?

They pierce my thickets, thro' my Grot they glide; By land, by water, they renew the charge; They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. 10 No place is sacred, not the Church is free; Ev'n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me; Then from the Mint walks forth the Man of rhyme, Happy to catch me just at Dinner-time.

Is there a Parson, much bemus'd in beer, 15 A maudlin Poetess, a rhyming Peer, A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, Who pens a Stanza, when he should _engross_?

Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls With desp'rate charcoal round his darken'd walls? 20 All fly to TWIT'NAM, and in humble strain Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.

Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the Laws, Imputes to me and my d.a.m.n'd works the cause: Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, 25 And curses Wit, and Poetry, and Pope.

Friend to my Life! (which did not you prolong, The world had wanted many an idle song) What _Drop_ or _Nostrum_ can this plague remove?

Or which must end me, a Fool's wrath or love? 30 A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped, If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.

Seiz'd and tied down to judge, how wretched I!

Who can't be silent, and who will not lie.

To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace, 35 And to be grave, exceeds all Pow'r of face.

I sit with sad civility, I read With honest anguish, and an aching head; And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, This saving counsel, "Keep your piece nine years." 40

"Nine years!" cries he, who high in Drury-lane, Lull'd by soft Zephyrs thro' the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before _Term_ ends, Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends: "The piece, you think, is incorrect? why, take it, 45 I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it."

Three things another's modest wishes bound, My Friendship, and a Prologue, and ten pound.

Pitholeon sends to me: "You know his Grace I want a Patron; ask him for a Place." 50 "Pitholeon libell'd me,"--"but here's a letter Informs you, Sir, 't was when he knew no better.

Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine,"

"He'll write a _Journal_, or he'll turn Divine."

Bless me! a packet.--"'Tis a stranger sues, 55 A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Muse."

If I dislike it, "Furies, death and rage!"

If I approve, "Commend it to the Stage."

There (thank my stars) my whole Commission ends, The Play'rs and I are, luckily, no friends, 60 Fir'd that the house reject him, "'Sdeath I'll print it, And shame the fools--Your Int'rest, Sir, with Lintot!"

'Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much:'

"Not, Sir, if you revise it, and retouch."