This world is here; for, of more lofty kind, These neighbouring volumes reason on the mind; They paint the state of man ere yet endued With knowledge;--man, poor, ignorant, and rude; Then, as his state improves, their pages swell, And all its cares, and all its comforts, tell: Here we behold how inexperience buys, At little price, the wisdom of the wise; Without the troubles of an active state, Without the cares and dangers of the great, Without the miseries of the poor, we know What wisdom, wealth, and poverty bestow; We see how reason calms the raging mind, And how contending passions urge mankind: Some, won by virtue, glow with sacred fire; Some, lured by vice, indulge the low desire; Whilst others, won by either, now pursue The guilty chase, now keep the good in view; For ever wretched, with themselves at strife, They lead a puzzled, vexed, uncertain life; For transient vice bequeaths a lingering pain Which transient virtue seeks to cure in vain. Whilst thus engaged, high views enlarge the soul, New interests draw, new principles control: Nor thus the soul alone resigns her grief, But here the tortured body finds relief; For see where yonder sage Arachnè shapes Her subtile gin, that not a fly escapes! There PHYSIC fills the space, and far around, Pile above pile, her learned works abound: Glorious their aim--to ease the labouring heart; To war with death, and stop his flying dart; To trace the source whence the fierce contest grew, And life's short lease on easier terms renew; To calm the frenzy of the burning brain; To heal the tortures of imploring pain; Or, when more powerful ills all efforts brave, To ease the victim no device can save, And smooth the stormy passage to the grave. But man, who knows no good unmixed and pure, Oft finds a poison where he sought a cure; For grave deceivers lodge their labours here, And cloud the science they pretend to clear: Scourges for sin, the solemn tribe are sent; Like fire and storms, they call us to repent; But storms subside, and fires forget to rage, _These_ are eternal scourges of the age: 'Tis not enough that each terrific hand Spreads desolation round a guilty land; But, trained to ill, and hardened by its crimes, Their pen relentless kills through future times. Say ye, who search these records of the dead, Who read huge works, to boast what ye have read; Can all the real knowledge ye possess, Or those (if such there are) who more than guess, Atone for each impostor's wild mistakes, And mend the blunders pride or folly makes?