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As full as perfect in vile Man that mourns As the rapt Seraph that adores, & burns To him no high, no low, no great, no small He fills, he bounds, connects, & equals all. Cease then nor order imperfection name Our proper bliss depends on what we blame Know thy own point, this kind, this due degree Of blindness, weakness, heav'n bestows on thee. Submit, - in this or any other sphere Secure to be as blest as thou canot bear. Safe in the hand of one disposing pow'r Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. All nature is but art unknown to thee All chance, direction which thou canst not see All partial evil universal good And spite of pride, in erring reason's spite The truth is clear [[underline]] whatever is, is right. [[/underline]]
