Nor only, in the intent
To attach blame elsewhere,
Do we at will invent
Stern powers who make their care
To imbitter human life, malignant deities;
But, next, we would reverse
The scheme ourselves have spun,
And what we made to curse
We now would lean upon,
And feign kind gods who perfect what man vainly tries.
Look, the world tempts our eye,
And we would know it all!
We map the starry sky,
We mine this earthen ball,
We measure the sea-tides, we number the sea-sands;
We scrutinize the dates
Of long-past human things,
The bounds of effaced states,
The lines of deceased kings;
We search out dead men's words, and works of dead men's hands;
We shut our eyes, and muse
How our own minds are made,
What springs of thought they use,
How rightened, how betrayed,—
And spend our wit to name what most employ unnamed.
But still, as we proceed,
The mass swells more and more
Of volumes yet to read,
Of secrets yet to explore.
Our hair grows gray, our eyes are dimmed, our heat is tamed;
