Vex not themselves for an increase of store, But think to-morrow we shall give them more. What we from day to day receive from Heaven, They do from us expect it should be given. We made them not, yet they on us rely, More than vain men upon the Deity; More beasts than they! that will not understand That we are fed from His immediate hand. 60 Man, that in Him has being, moves, and lives, What can he have, or use, but what He gives? So that no bread can nourishment afford, Or useful be, without His sacred Word. [1] 'Great conqueror': Alexander. CANTO II. Earth praises conquerors for shedding blood, Heaven those that love their foes, and do them good. It is terrestrial honour to be crown'd For strewing men, like rushes, on the ground. True glory 'tis to rise above them all, Without th'advantage taken by their fall. 70 He that in sight diminishes mankind, Does no addition to his stature find; But he that does a noble nature show, Obliging others, still does higher grow; For virtue practised such a habit gives, That among men he like an angel lives; Humbly he doth, and without envy, dwell, Loved and admired by those he does excel. Fools anger show, which politicians hide; 79 Bless'd with this fear, men let it not abide. The humble man, when he receives a wrong, Refers revenge to whom it doth belong; Nor sees he reason why he should engage, Or vex his spirit for another's rage. Placed on a rock, vain men he pities, toss'd On raging waves, and in the tempest lost. The rolling planets, and the glorious sun, Still keep that order which they first begun; They their first lesson constantly repeat, Which their Creator as a law did set. 90 Above, below, exactly all obey; But wretched men have found another way; Knowledge of good and evil, as at first, (That vain persuasion!) keeps them still accursed! The Sacred Word refusing as a guide, Slaves they become to luxury and pride. As clocks, remaining in the skilful hand Of some great master, at the figure stand, But when abroad, neglected they do go, At random strike, and the false hour do show; 100 So from our Maker wandering, we stray, Like birds that know not to their nests the way. In Him we dwelt before our exile here, And may, returning, find contentment there: True joy may find, perfection of delight, Behold his face, and shun eternal night. Silence, my Muse! make not these jewels cheap, Exposing to the world too large a heap. Of all we read, the Sacred Writ is best, Where great truths are in fewest words express'd. 110