Another, careless of the stars, descries The humble dust, to scan and analyse. His microscope he grasps, and sets, and falls On some poor atom; and a triumph calls, If should the fool the magic instrument Of life or motion slightest sign present, Its form to notice, in the glass to pore, What his deluded fancy saw before; Yields to the cheat, and gives to matter base The power, forgot the Lord of all to trace. Thus raves the ingrate. Another the meanwhile To scrutinize pretends, in learning’s style, The innate essence of the soul sublime. How he dissects it, regulates in time! As if it were a subtile fluid, known To him its action, functions, strength and tone; But his own weakness shows in this alone. ’Twas given to man to view the heavens on high, But not in them the mysteries of the sky; Yet boldly dares his reason penetrate The darksome chaos, o’er it to dilate. With staggering step, thus scorning heavenly light, In error’s paths he wanders, lost in night. Confused, but not made wise, he pores about, Betwixt opinion wavering and doubt. Seeking for light, and shadows doom’d to feel, He ponders, studies, labours to unseal The secret, and at length finds his advance; The more he learns, how great his ignorance. Of matter, form, or motion, or the soul, Or moments that away incessant roll, Or the unfathomable sea of space, Without a sky, without a shore to trace, Nothing he reaches, nothing comprehends, Nor finds its origin, nor where it tends; But only sinking, all absorb’d may see In the abysses of eternity.