Classic Poem

In spotted Globes , that have resembled all
Which we , or Beasts possess, to one great Ball ;
Dimme little Specks for thronging Cities stand,
Lines wind for Rivers, Blots bound Sea and Land .
Small are those Spots , which in the Moon we view
Yet Glasses these, like Shades of Mountains shew;
As what an even Brightness does retain,
A glorious Level seems, and shining Plain .
Those Crouds of Stars in the populous Sky ,
Which Art beholds as twinkling Worlds on high,
Appear to naked, unassisted Sight,
No more than Sparks , or slender points of Light .
The Sun , a flaming Universe alone,
Bigger than that , about which his fires run;
Enlightning ours, his Globe but part does gild,
Part by his Lustre , or Earths Shades conceal'd;
His Glory dwindled so, as what we spy
Scarce fills the narrow Circle of the Eye .
What new America 's of Light have been
Yet undiscover'd there, or yet unseen ,
Art 's near Approaches awfully forbid,
As in the Majesty of Nature hid;
Nature , who with like State , and equal Pride ,
Her Great Works does in Height and Distance hide,
And shuts up her Minuter Bodies all
In curious frames, imperceptibly small .
Thus still incognito , she seeks Recess
In Greatness half-seen , or dimme Littleness.

Ah, happy Littleness ! that art thus blest,
That greatest Glories aspire to seem least .
Even those install'd in a higher Sphere ,
The higher they are rais'd, the less appear,
And in their Exaltation , emulate
Thy humble Grandeur , and thy modest State .
Nor is this all thy Praise, though not the least,
That Greatness , is thy Counterfeit at best.
Those swelling Honours , which in that we prize,
Thou dost contain in thy more thrifty Size ;
And hast that Pomp, Magnificence does boast,
Though in thy Stature , and Dimensions lost.
Those rugged little Bodies , whose parts rise ,
And fall , in various Inequalities ;
Hills , in the Risings of their Surface show,
As Vallies , in their hollow Pits below.
Pompous these lesser things , but yet less rude
Then uncompact , and looser Magnitude .
What Skill is in the frame of Insects shown?
How fine the Threds , in their small Textures spun?
How close those Instruments and Engines knit,
Which Motion , and their slender Sense transmit?
Like living Watches , each of these conceals
A thousand Springs of Life , and moving wheels .
Each Ligature a Lab'rynth seems, each part
All wonder is, all Workmanship and Art .

Rather let me this little Greatness know,
Then all the Mighty Acts of Great Ones do.
These Engines understand, rather than prove
An Archimedes , and the Earth remove.
These Atom-Worlds found out, I would despise
Columbus , and his vast Discoveries .