Lo! the poor Indian, whose untutor'd mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind;
His soul, proud Science never taught to stray
Far as the Solar walk, or Milky way;
Yet simple Nature to his Hope has giv'n
Behind the cloud-topt hill an humbler heav'n,
Some safer world in depth of woods embrac'd,
Some happier Island in the watry waste,
Where Slaves once more their native land behold,
No Fiends torment, no Christians thirst for Gold.
To be, contents his natural desire,
He asks no Angel's wing, or Seraph's fire,
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
This faithful Dog shall bear him company.
Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense
Weigh thy Opinion against Providence:
Call Imperfection what thou fancy'st such;
Say, here he gives too little, there too much;
Destroy all Creatures for thy sport or gust,
Yet cry, if Man's unhappy, God's unjust,
If Man, alone, engross not Heav'ns high care,
Alone, made perfect here, immortal there;
Snatch from his hand the Balance and the Rod,
Re-judge his Justice, Be the GOD of GOD!