His anxious heart asserts the truth I sing, And gives the sceptic in his head the lie. Our heads, our hearts, our passions, and our powers, Speak the same language; call us to the skies: Unripen'd these in this inclement clime, Scarce rise above conjecture, and mistake; And for this land of trifles those too strong Tumultuous rise, and tempest human life: 68 What prize on earth can pay us for the storm? Meet objects for our passions Heaven ordain'd, Objects that challenge all their fire, and leave No fault, but in defect: bless'd Heaven! avert A bounded ardour for unbounded bliss! O for a bliss unbounded! Far beneath A soul immortal, is a mortal joy. Nor are our powers to perish immature; But, after feeble effort here, beneath A brighter sun, and in a nobler soil, Transplanted from this sublunary bed, Shall flourish fair, and put forth all their bloom. 80 Reason progressive, Instinct is complete; Swift Instinct leaps; slow Reason feebly climbs. Brutes soon their zenith reach; their little all Flows in at once; in ages they no more Could know, or do, or covet, or enjoy. Were man to live coeval with the sun, The patriarch-pupil would be learning still; Yet, dying, leave his lesson half unlearn'd. Men perish in advance, as if the sun Should set ere noon, in eastern oceans drown'd; 90 If fit, with dim, illustrious to compare, The sun's meridian with the soul of man. To man, why, stepdame Nature! so severe? Why thrown aside thy masterpiece half wrought, While meaner efforts thy last hand enjoy? Or, if abortively, poor man must die, Nor reach, what reach he might, why die in dread? Why cursed with foresight? wise to misery? Why of his proud prerogative the prey? Why less pre-eminent in rank than pain? 100 His immortality alone can tell; Full ample fund to balance all amiss, 102 And turn the scale in favour of the just! His immortality alone can solve The darkest of enigmas, human hope; Of all the darkest, if at death we die. Hope, eager Hope, th' assassin of our joy, All present blessings treading under foot, Is scarce a milder tyrant than Despair. With no past toils content, still planting new, 110 Hope turns us o'er to death alone for ease. Possession, why more tasteless than pursuit? Why is a wish far dearer than a crown? That wish accomplish'd, why the grave of bliss? Because, in the great future buried deep, Beyond our plans of empire and renown, Lies all that man with ardour should pursue; And He who made him, bent him to the right. Man's heart th' Almighty to the future sets, By secret and inviolable springs; 120 And makes his hope his sublunary joy. Man's heart eats all things, and is hungry still;