Classic Poem

Lord! what a busy, restless thing
Hast thou made man?
Each day, and hour he is on wing,
Rests not a span;
Then having lost the Sun, and light
By clouds surpris'd
He keeps a Commerce in the night
With air disguis'd;
Hadst thou given to this active dust
A state untir'd,
The lost Son had not left the husk
Nor home desir'd;
That was thy secret, and it is
Thy mercy too,
For when all fails to bring to bliss,
Then, this must do.
Ah! Lord! and what a Purchase will that be
To take us sick, that sound would not take thee?