'My sons! (she answer'd) both have done your parts: Live happy both, and long promote our arts. But hear a mother, when she recommends To your fraternal care our sleeping friends. 440 The common soul, of Heaven's more frugal make, Serves but to keep fools pert and knaves awake: A drowsy watchman, that just gives a knock, And breaks our rest, to tell us what's a clock. Yet by some object every brain is stirr'd; The dull may waken to a humming-bird; The most recluse, discreetly open'd, find Congenial matter in the cockle-kind; The mind in metaphysics at a loss, May wander in a wilderness of moss;[427] 450 The head that turns at super-lunar things, Poised with a tail, may steer on Wilkins' wings.[428]
'Oh! would the sons of men once think their eyes And reason given them but to study flies! See nature in some partial narrow shape, And let the Author of the whole escape: Learn but to trifle; or, who most observe, To wonder at their Maker, not to serve.'
'Be that my task' (replies a gloomy clerk, Sworn foe to mystery, yet divinely dark; 460 Whose pious hope aspires to see the day When moral evidence[429] shall quite decay, And damns implicit faith, and holy lies, Prompt to impose, and fond to dogmatise:) 'Let others creep by timid steps and slow, On plain experience lay foundations low, By common sense to common knowledge bred, And last, to Nature's cause through Nature led: All-seeing in thy mists, we want no guide, Mother of arrogance, and source of pride! 470 We nobly take the high priori road,[430] And reason downward, till we doubt of God: Make Nature still[431] encroach upon his plan; And shove him off as far as e'er we can: Thrust some mechanic cause into his place; Or bind in matter, or diffuse in space.[432] Or, at one bound o'erleaping all his laws, Make God man's image, man the final cause, Find virtue local, all relation scorn, See all in self, and but for self be born: 480 Of nought so certain as our reason still, Of nought so doubtful as of soul and will. O! hide the God still more! and make us see, Such as Lucretius drew, a God like thee: Wrapt up in self, a God without a thought, Regardless of our merit or default. Or that bright image[433] to our fancy draw, Which Theocles[434] in raptured vision saw, While through poetic scenes the genius roves, Or wanders wild in academic groves; 490 That Nature our society adores,[435] Where Tindal dictates, and Silenus[436] snores.'