style="font-size:15px;"> The limits of immensity to find?
Infinity’s beginning, middle, end?
Dost Thou, Eternal Lord, then condescend
To admit man to Thy councils, or to be
With his poor reason in Thy sanctuary?
A task so great as this dost Thou confide
To his weak soul? ’Tis not so, be relied,
My friend. To know God in His works above,
To adore Him, melt in gratitude and love;
The blessings o’er thee lavish’d to confess,
To sing His glory, and His name to bless;—
Such be thy study, duty and employ;
And of thy life and reason such the joy.
Such is the course that should the wise essay,
While only fools will from it turn away.
Wouldst thou attain it? easy the emprise;
Perfect thy being, and thou wilt be wise:
Inform thy reason, that its aid impart
Thee truth eternal: purify thy heart,
To love and follow it: thy study make
Thyself, but seek thy Maker’s light to take:
There is high Wisdom’s fountain found alone:
There thou thy origin wilt find thee shown;
There in His glorious work to find the place
’Tis thine to occupy: there thou mayst trace
Thy lofty destiny, the crown declared
Of endless life, for virtue that’s prepared.
Bermudo, there ascend: there seek to find
That truth and virtue in the heavenly mind,
Which from His love and wisdom ever flow.
If elsewhere thou dost seek to find them, know,
That darkness only thou wilt have succeed,
In ignorance and error to mislead.
Thou of this love and wisdom mayst the rays
Discern in all His works, His power and praise
That tell around us, in the wondrous scale
Of high perfection which they all detail;
The order which they follow in the laws,
That bind and keep them, and that show their cause,
The ends of love and pity in their frame:
These their Creator’s goodness all proclaim.
Be this thy learning, this thy glory’s view;
If virtuous, thou art wise and happy too.
Virtue and truth are one, and in them bound
Alone may ever happiness be found.
And they can only, with a conscience pure,
Give to thy soul to enjoy it, peace secure;
True liberty in moderate desires,
And joy in all to do thy work requires;
To do well in content, and calmly free:
All else is wind and misery, vanity.
O silly little bird! who now
On Galatea’s lap hast got,
My unrequited love allow
To envy thee thy lot.
Of the same lovely mistress both
Alike the captives bound are we;
But thou for thy misfortune loth,
Whilst I am willingly.
Thou restless in thy prison art,
Complaining ever of thy pains;
While I would kisses, on my part,
Ev’n lavish on my chains.
But, ah! how different treating us,
Has scornful Fate the lot assign’d!
With me she’s always tyrannous,
But with thee just as kind.
A thousand nights of torment borne,
A thousand days of martyrdom,
By thousand toils and pains, her scorn
I cannot overcome.
Inestimable happiness,
A mere caprice for thee has got;
So bathed in tears, in my distress,
I envy thee thy lot.
And there the while, with daring heel,
Thou tread’st in arrant confidence,
Without a heart or hope to feel,
Or instinct’s common sense.
In the embraces, which my thought,
Not even in its boldest vein,
Could scarce to hope for have been brought,
Presumptuous to attain.
Lovely
