Thus let us turn where'er we will, _Each Machiavel_'s a _Changeling_ still. But tho' among all _Nature_'s works The seed of foul _Corruption_ lurks, Yet no where is it known to bear So vile a Crop on Ground so fair, As when upon _Religion_'s root _It raises Diabolic Fruit_. When the Almighty Father's Love Call'd Things to Being, from above Millions of winged _Blessings_ flew, Sent from his right hand, to bedew The new-born Earth, and from their wings Shed good on all _created Things_. Precious and various tho' the store Which down to Earth these Legates bore, That _Heav'nly Spark_ we _Reason call_, Was far the richest boon of all. By _this_ we find _th' Almighty Cause_ From whom the World its Being draws; _By whom Earth_'s plenteous Table's spread, At which each living Creature's fed; _Who_ gave the _Breath of Life_, and whence This fine _Variety_ of _Sense_; _Whose Hands_ unfold the azure sky, Sublimely pleasing to _the Eye_; _Who_ tun'd the feather'd Songster's throat, Giving such softness to his note, To fill the _Ear_ with dulcet sound, And pour sweet Music all around; Who on the teeming Branches plac'd Such various Fruit to please the _Taste_; What bounteous Hand perfum'd the _Rose_, And ev'ry scented Flow'r that blows, And wafts its fragrance thro' the Vale, Courting the _Smell_ in ev'ry gale, To _whom_ it is we owe so much Substantial pleasure in the _Touch_; And _whence_, superior to the whole, Those raptures that transport _the Soul_; _This_ gives our Gratitude to glow To him, from whom such Blessings flow; This teaches Man his _moral Part_, And grafts _Religion_ in the Heart.