All things the world which fill Of but one stuff are spun, That we who rail are still, With what we rail at, one; One with the o’er-labored Power that through the breadth and length Of earth, and air, and sea, In men, and plants, and stones, Hath toil perpetually, And travails, pants, and moans; Fain would do all things well, but sometimes fails in strength. And patiently exact This universal God Alike to any act Proceeds at any nod, And quietly declaims the cursings of himself. This is not what man hates, Yet he can curse but this. Harsh gods and hostile fates Are dreams! this only _is_,-- Is everywhere; sustains the wise, the foolish elf. Nor only, in the intent To attach blame elsewhere, Do we at will invent Stern powers who make their care To imbitter human life, malignant deities; But, next, we would reverse The scheme ourselves have spun, And what we made to curse We now would lean upon, And feign kind gods who perfect what man vainly tries. Look, the world tempts our eye, And we would know it all! We map the starry sky, We mine this earthen ball, We measure the sea-tides, we number the sea-sands; We scrutinize the dates Of long-past human things, The bounds of effaced states, The lines of deceased kings; We search out dead men’s words, and works of dead men’s hands; We shut our eyes, and muse How our own minds are made, What springs of thought they use, How rightened, how betrayed,-- And spend our wit to name what most employ unnamed. But still, as we proceed, The mass swells more and more Of volumes yet to read, Of secrets yet to explore. Our hair grows gray, our eyes are dimmed, our heat is tamed; We rest our faculties, And thus address the gods: “True science if there is, It stays in your abodes! Man’s measures cannot mete the immeasurable all. “You only can take in The world’s immense design; Our desperate search was sin, Which henceforth we resign, Sure only that your mind sees all things which befall.” Fools! That in man’s brief term He cannot all things view, Affords no ground to affirm That there are gods who do; Nor does being weary prove that he has where to rest. Again: Our youthful blood Claims rapture as its right; The world, a rolling flood Of newness and delight, Draws in the enamoured gazer to its shining breast; Pleasure, to our hot grasp, Gives flowers after flowers; With passionate warmth we clasp Hand after hand in ours; Now do we soon perceive how fast our youth is spent.