Lo! the poor Indian, whose untutor'd mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; 100
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-top'd hill, an humbler heav'n;
Some safer world in depth of woods embrac'd, 105
Some happier Island in the wat'ry 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, no seraph's fire; 110
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His 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, 115
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 heaven's high care,
Alone made perfect here, immortal there, 120
Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod,
Rejudge his Justice, be the god of God!
In pride, in reas'ning pride, our error lies;
All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies.
Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes, 125
Men would be angels, angels would be gods.
Aspiring
