Classic Poem

Lord of creation, man—come, all things see
Exceed in happiness and wisdom thee.
Behold yon ass, to whom thy partial race
Gives in the world of life the lowest place:
Thou call'st him wretched, and I grant him so,
But not from self his pitied sufferings flow;
Beneath stern Nature's load the wretch may groan,
Yet wisely still adds nothing of his own:
But man, alas! besides his natural share,
Makes half those evils he repines to bear.
Does any sneeze? grief turns the hearers pale;
We burn with anger if the world should rail:
Unlucky dreams with terror fill the soul;
We tremble at the hooting of an owl:
By contests, prejudices, pride, and law,
Unnumber'd evils on ourselves we draw.