From An Essay On Man
Heav'n
from
all
creatures
hides
the
book
of
fate,
All
but
the
page
prescrib'd,
their
present
state:
From
brutes
what
men,
from
men
what
spirits
know:
Or
who
could
suffer
being
here
below?
The
lamb
thy
riot
dooms
to
bleed
today,
Had
he
thy
reason,
would
he
skip
and
play?
Pleas'd
to
the
last,
he
crops
the
flow'ry
food,
And
licks
the
hand
just
rais'd
to
shed
his
blood.
Oh
blindness
to
the
future!
kindly
giv'n,
That
each
may
fill
the
circle
mark'd
by
Heav'n:
Who
sees
with
equal
eye,
as
God
of
all,
A
hero
perish,
or
a
sparrow
fall,
Atoms
or
systems
into
ruin
hurl'd,
And
now
a
bubble
burst,
and
now
a
world.
Hope
humbly
then;
with
trembling
pinions
soar;
Wait
the
great
teacher
Death;
and
God
adore.
What
future
bliss,
he
gives
not
thee
to
know,
But
gives
that
hope
to
be
thy
blessing
now.
Hope
springs
eternal
in
the
human
breast:
Man
never
is,
but
always
to
be
blest:
The
soul,
uneasy
and
confin'd
from
home,
Rests
and
expatiates
in
a
life
to
come.
Lo!
the
poor
Indian,
whose
untutor'd
mind
Sees
God
in
clouds,
or
hears
him
in
the
wind;
His
soul,
proud
science
never
taught
to
stray
Far
as
the
solar
walk,
or
milky
way;
Yet
simple
nature
to
his
hope
has
giv'n,
Behind
the
cloud
topp'd
hill,
an
humbler
heav'n;
Some
safer
world
in
depth
of
woods
embrac'd,
Some
happier
island
in
the
wat'ry
waste,
Where
slaves
once
more
their
native
land
behold,
No
fiends
torment,
no
Christians
thirst
for
gold.
To
be,
contents
his
natural
desire,
He
asks
no
angel's
wing,
no
seraph's
fire;
But
thinks,
admitted
to
that
equal
sky.
