Still, Mind is up and stirring, and pryeth in the corners of contrivance, Often from the dark recesses picking out bright seeds of truth: Knowledge hath clipped the lightning's wings, and mewed it up for a purpose, Training to some domestic task the fiery bird of heaven; Tamed is the spirit of the storm, to slave in all peaceful arts, To walk with husbandry and science; to stand in the vanguard against death: And the chemist balanceth his elements with more than magic skill, Commanding stones that they be bread, and draining sweetness out of wormwood. Yet man, heedless of a God, counteth up vain reckonings, Fearing to be jostled and starved out, by the too prolific increase of his kind; And asketh, in unbelieving dread, for how few years to come Will the black cellars of the world yield unto him fuel for his winter. Might not the wide waste sea be pent within narrower bounds? Might not the arm of diligence make the tangled wilderness a garden? And for aught thou canst tell, there may be a thousand methods Of comforting thy limbs in warmth, though thou kindle not a spark. Fear not, son of man, for thyself nor thy seed:--with a multitude is plenty; God's blessing giveth increase, and with it larger than enough. Search out the wisdom of nature, there is depth in all her doings; She seemeth prodigal of power, yet her rules are the maxims of frugality: The plant refresheth the air, and the earth filtereth the water, And dews are sucked into the cloud, dropping fatness on the world: She hath, on a mighty scale, a general use for all things; Yet hath she specially for each its microscopic purpose: There is use in the prisoned air, that swelleth the pods of the laburnum; Design in the venomed thorns, that sentinel the leaves of the nettle; A final cause for the aromatic gum, that congealeth the moss around a rose: A reason for each blade of grass, that reareth its small spire. How knoweth discontented man what a train of ills might follow, If the lowest menial of nature knew not her secret office? If the thistle never sprang up to mock the loose husbandry of indolence, Or the pestilence never swept away an unknown curse from among men? Would ye crush the buzzing myriads that float on the breath of evening? Would ye trample the creatures of God that people the rotting fruit? Would ye suffer no mildew forest to stain the unhealthy wall, Nor a noisome savour to exhale from the pool that breedeth disease? Pain is useful unto man, for it teacheth him to guard his life, And the fetid vapours of the fen warn him to fly from danger: And the meditative mind, looking on, winneth good food for its hunger, Seeing the wholesome root bring forth a poisonous berry; For otherwhile falleth it out that truth, driven to extremities, Yieldeth bitter folly as the spoilt fruit of wisdom. O, blinded is thine eye, if it see not just aptitude in all things: