University of Virginia Library


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To those who accuse the Author of Ingratitude.

You, who thro' optics dim, so falsely view
This wond'rous maze of things, and rend a part
From the well-order'd whole, to fit your sense
Low, groveling, and confin'd; say from what source
Spring your all-wise opinions? Can you dare
Pronounce from proof, who ne'er pursu'd event
To its minutest cause? Yet farther soar,
In swift gradation, to the verge of space;
Where, wrapt in worlds, Time's origin exists:

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There breathe your question; there the cause explore,
Why dark afflictions, borne upon the wing
Of Love invisible, light on the wretch
Inured and patient in the pangs of woe?
Or Wisdom infinite with Pride arraign;
Rebuke the Deity, and madly ask,
Why Man's sad hour of anguish ever ends?
What are your boasts, ye incapacious souls,
Who would confine, within your narrow orbs,
Th'extensive All? Can sense, like yours, discern
An object, wand'ring from her destin'd course,
Quitting the purer path, where spirit roves,
To sip Mortality's soul-clogging dews,
And feast on Craft's poor dregs? What tho' she own'd

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An office, would have borne her to the stars
While list'ning Angels had the plaudit hail'd,
And bless'd her force of soul, unequal prov'd
Her strongest pow'rs, to top fair Virtue's height,
Or, on the act, to fix the stamp of Merit.
What's noos'd opinion but a creeping curse,
That leads the Idiot thro' yon beaten track,
When keener spirits ask it? Which of you
Dare, on the wing of Candour, stretch afar
To seize the bright sublimity of Truth!
A wish to share the false, tho' public din,
In which the popular, not virtuous, live;
A fear of being singular, which claims
A fortitude of mind you ne'er could boast;

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A love of base detraction, when the charm
Sits on a flowing tongue, and willing moves
Upon its darling topic. These are yours.
But were the stedfast adamantine pow'rs
Of Principle unmov'd? Fantastic group!
Spread wide your arms, and turn yon flaming Sun
From his most fair direction; dash the stars
With Earth's poor pebbles, and ask the World's great Sire,
Why, in Creation's system, he dare fix
More orbs than your weak sense shall e'er discern?
Then scan the feelings of Lactilla's soul.