TO all inferior animals 'tis giv'n
T' enjoy the state allotted them by Heaven;
No vain researches e'er disturb their rest,
No fears of dark futurity molest.
Man, only Man solicitous to know
The springs whence Nature's operations flow,
Plods through a dreary waste with toil and pain,
And reasons, hopes, and thinks, and lives in vain;
For sable Death still hov'ring o'er his head,
Cuts short his progress, with his vital thread.
Wherefore, since Nature errs not, do we find
These seeds of Science in the human mind,
If no congenial fruits are predesign'd?
For what avails to man this pow'r to roam
Thro' ages past, and ages yet to come,
T' explore new worlds o'er all th' aetherial way,
Chain'd to a spot, and living but a day?
Since all must perish in one common grave,
Nor can these long laborious searches save,
Were it not wiser far, supinely laid,
To sport with Phyllis in the noontide shade?
Or at thy jovial festivals appear,
Great Bacchus, who alone the soul can clear
From all that it has felt, and all that it can fear?