We would have inward peace, Yet will not look within; We would have misery cease, Yet will not cease from sin; We want all pleasant ends, but will use no harsh means; We do not what we ought, What we ought not, we do, And lean upon the thought That chance will bring us through; But our own acts, for good or ill, are mightier powers. Yet, even when man forsakes All sin,--is just, is pure, Abandons all which makes His welfare insecure,-- Other existences there are, that clash with ours. Like us, the lightning-fires Love to have scope and play; The stream, like us, desires An unimpeded way; Like us, the Libyan wind delights to roam at large. Streams will not curb their pride The just man not to entomb, Nor lightnings go aside To give his virtues room; Nor is that wind less rough which blows a good man's barge. Nature, with equal mind, Sees all her sons at play; Sees man control the wind, The wind sweep man away; Allows the proudly-riding and the foundering bark. And, lastly, though of ours No weakness spoil our lot, Though the non-human powers Of Nature harm us not, The ill deeds of other men make often _our_ life dark. What were the wise man's plan?-- Through this sharp, toil-set life, To work as best he can, And win what's won by strife.-- But we an easier way to cheat our pains have found. Scratch'd by a fall, with moans As children of weak age Lend life to the dumb stones Whereon to vent their rage, And bend their little fists, and rate the senseless ground; So, loath to suffer mute, We, peopling the void air, Make Gods to whom to impute The ills we ought to bear; With God and Fate to rail at, suffering easily. Yet grant--as sense long miss'd Things that are now perceived, And much may still exist Which is not yet believed-- Grant that the world were full of Gods we cannot see; 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'erlabour'd 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.