Thou great First Cause, least understood,
    Who all my sense confined
  To know but this, that thou art good,
    And that myself am blind;

  Yet gave me, in this dark estate,
    To see the good from ill;
  And, binding nature fast in fate,
    Left free the human will: 

  What conscience dictates to be done,
    Or warns me not to do,
  This, teach me more than hell to shun,
    That, more than heaven pursue.

  What blessings thy free bounty gives
    Let me not cast away;
  For God is paid when man receives,
    To enjoy is to obey.

  Yet not to earth’s contracted span
    Thy goodness let me bound,
  Or think thee Lord alone of man,
    When thousand worlds are round: 

  Let not this weak, unknowing hand
    Presume thy bolts to throw,
  And deal damnation round the land
    On each I judge thy foe.

  If I am right thy grace impart
    Still in the right to stay;
  If I am wrong, O, teach my heart
    To find that better way!

  Save me alike from foolish pride
    And impious discontent
  At aught thy wisdom has dented,
    Or aught thy goodness lent.

  Teach me to feel another’s woe,
    To hide the fault I see;
  That mercy I to others show,
    That mercy show to me.

  Mean though I am, not wholly so,
    Since quickened by thy breath;
  O, lead me wheresoe’er I go,
    Through this day’s life or death!

  This day be bread and peace my lot;
    All else beneath the sun,
  Thou knowest if best bestowed or not,
    And let thy will be done.

  To thee, whose temple is all space,
    Whose altar, earth, sea, skies,
  One chorus let all Being raise,
    All Nature incense rise!

ALEXANDER POPE.

* * * * *

ODE.

FROM “THE SPECTATOR.”

  The spacious firmament on high,
  With all the blue ethereal sky,
  And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
  Their great Original proclaim;
  The unwearied sun, from day to day,
  Does his Creator’s power display,
  And publishes to every land
  The work of an Almighty hand.

  Soon as the evening shades prevail,
  The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
  And nightly to the listening earth
  Repeats the story of her birth;
  While all the stars that round her burn,
  And all the planets in their turn,
  Confirm the tidings as they roll,
  And spread the truth from pole to pole.

  What though, in solemn silence, all
  Move round the dark terrestrial ball? 
  What though no real voice or sound
  Amid their radiant orbs be found? 
  In Reason’s ear they all rejoice,
  And utter forth a glorious voice,
  Forever singing, as they shine,
  “The hand that made us is divine!”