POEM ON THE EARTHQUAKE.
171
by a Principle of Evil, like the Persian Ariman? The poet refuses to believe in such odious monsters, of whom the trembling world once made gods, and pursues his argument thus:—
"Can we conceive a God beneficent
Upon His children's happiness intent,
Yet on them sorrows sparing not to heap?
What eye can penetrate designs so ueep?
Through the All-perfect how can ill befall?
Yet how have other source, since He rules all?
Still evil's everywhere: Confusion dense!
Sad puzzle, far too hard for human sense!
A God came down to shed some balm around,
Surveyed the earth, and left it as He found!
His power to mend, the sophist loud denies;
He wanted but the will, another cries:
And while the disputants their views proclaim,
Lisbon is perishing in gulfs of flame,
And thirty towns with ashes strew the lea
From Tagus' ravaged borders to the sea,
Upon His children's happiness intent,
Yet on them sorrows sparing not to heap?
What eye can penetrate designs so ueep?
Through the All-perfect how can ill befall?
Yet how have other source, since He rules all?
Still evil's everywhere: Confusion dense!
Sad puzzle, far too hard for human sense!
A God came down to shed some balm around,
Surveyed the earth, and left it as He found!
His power to mend, the sophist loud denies;
He wanted but the will, another cries:
And while the disputants their views proclaim,
Lisbon is perishing in gulfs of flame,
And thirty towns with ashes strew the lea
From Tagus' ravaged borders to the sea,
"Does God with evil scourge a guilty race?
Or does the Lord of Being and of Space,
Unswayed by pity's touch, or anger's force,
Of His fixed will just watch the changeless course?
Does formless matter, rebel to its Lord,
Bear in itself the seeds of disaccord?
Maybe God proves us, and our sojourn here
Is but a passage to the eternal sphere.
Fleeting, though sharp, the griefs that on us press;
And death, in ending them, but comes to bless.
Yet, when we issue from his dreadful gate,
Who may presume to claim a happier fate?
Or does the Lord of Being and of Space,
Unswayed by pity's touch, or anger's force,
Of His fixed will just watch the changeless course?
Does formless matter, rebel to its Lord,
Bear in itself the seeds of disaccord?
Maybe God proves us, and our sojourn here
Is but a passage to the eternal sphere.
Fleeting, though sharp, the griefs that on us press;
And death, in ending them, but comes to bless.
Yet, when we issue from his dreadful gate,
Who may presume to claim a happier fate?
"Tremble we must, howe'er the riddle's read,
And, knowing nothing, we have all to dread.
Nature is mute, we question her in vain,
And, knowing nothing, we have all to dread.
Nature is mute, we question her in vain,
