Classic Poem

'Tis so; and humbly I my will resign,
Nor dare dispute with Providence divine.
In vain, alas! we struggle with our chains,
But more entangled by the fruitless pains.
For as i'th great Creation of this All,
Nothing by chance could in such order fall;
And what would single be deform'd confest,
Grows beauteous in its union with the rest:
So providence like wisedom we allow,
(Since what created once does govern now)
And the same fate that seems to one reverse,
Is necessary to the Universe
All these particular and various things,
Link'd to their causes by such secret springs,
Are held so fast, and govern'd with such art,
That nothing can out of its order start.
The world's God's watch, where nothing is so small,
But makes a part of what composes all:
Could the least pin be lost or else misplac'd,
The whole would be disordred and defac'd
It beats no pulse in vain, but keeps its time,
And undiscern'd to its own height does climb;
Strung first, and daily wound up by his hand
Who can its motions guide and understand.
No secret cunning then, or multitude,
Can providence divert, crosse or delude
And her Just full degrees are hidden things,
Which harder are to find then births of springs,
Yet all in various consorts fitly sound,
And by their discords harmony compound
Hence is that Order, Life and Energy,
Whereby Forms are preserv'd though Matter dy;
And shifting dress, keep their own Living State:
So what kills this, does that thing propagate
This made that Antique Sage in rapture Cry
That sure the world had full Eternity.
But though it self to fate and time submit,
Hee's above both, who made and governs it;
And to each creature hath such portion lent,
As Love and wisedom sees convenient.
For hee's no Tyrant, nor delights to grieve
The beings which by him alone can Live.
Hee's most concern'd, and hath the greatest share
In man, and therefore takes the greatest care
To make him happy, who alone can be
So by Submission and Conformity
For why should changes here below surprize,
When the whole world its revolution trys?
Where were our springs, our harvests pleasant use,
Unless Vicissitude did them produce?
Nay, what can be so wearisome a paine,
As when no alterations entertain?
To loose, to suffer, to be sick and dy,
Arrest us by the same necessity.
Nor would they trouble us, but that our mind
Hath its own glorys unto drosse confin'd.
For outward things remove not from their place,
Till our soules run to beg their mean embrace;
Then doting on the choice make it our own,
By placing triffles in th'opinion's Throne
So when they are divorc'd by some new crosse,
Our soules seem widdow'd by the fatall losse:
But could we keep our Grandeur and our state,
Nothing below would seem unfortunate;
But Grace and reason, which best succours bring,
Would with advantage mannage every thing;
And by right Judgments would prevent our mone,
For loosing that which hever was our Own
For right Opinion's like a Marble Grott,
In summer cold, and in the winter hot;
A principle which in each fortune lives,
Bestowing Catholique preservatives.
'Tis this resolves, there are no losses where
Vertue and reason are continued there.
The meanest soule might such a fortune share,
But no meane soule could thus that fortune beare
Thus I compose my thoughts grown insolent,
As the Irish Harper doth his Instrument;
Which if once struck doth murmur and complain,
But the next touch will silence all again.