As reason's pow'rs by day our God disclose

As reason's pow'rs by day our God disclose,
So we may trace him in the night's repose:
Say what is sleep? and dreams how passing strange!
When action ceases, and ideas range
Licentious and unbounded o'er the plains,
Where Fancy's queen in giddy triumph reigns,
Hear in soft strains the dreaming lover sigh
To a kind fair, or rave in jealousy;
On pleasure now, and now on vengeance bent,
The lab'ring passions struggle for a vent.
What pow'r, O man! thy reason then restores,
So long suspended in nocturnal hours?
What secret hand returns the mental train.
And gives improv'd thine active pow'rs again?
From thee, O man, what gratitude should rise
And, when from balmy sleep thou op'st thine eyes,
Let thy first thoughts be praises to the skies.
How merciful our God who thus imparts
O'erflowing tides of joy to human hearts,
When wants and woes might be our righteous lot,
Our God forgetting, by our God forgot!
Among the mental pow'rs a question rose,
" What most the image of th' Eternal shows? "
When thus to Reason (so let Fancy rove)
Her great companion spoke immortal Love:
" Say, mighty pow'r, how long shall strife prevail.
" And with its murmurs load the whispering gale?
" Refer the cause to Recollection's shrine,
" Who loud proclaims my origin divine,
" The cause whence heav'n and earth began to be,
" And is not man immortaliz'd by me?
" Reason, let this most causeless strife subside. "
Thus Love pronounced. and Reason thus repli'd:
" Thy birth, celestial queen! 'tis mine to own,
" In thee resplendent is the Godhead shown;
" Thy words persuade, my soul enraptured feels
" Resistless beauty which thy smile reveals. "
Ardent she spoke, and, kindling at her charms.
She clasp'd the blooming goddess in her arms.
Infinite Love where'er we turn our eyes
Appears: this ev'ry creature's wants supplies;
This most is heard in Nature's constant voice,
This makes the morn, and this the eve rejoice;
This bids the fost'ring rains and dews descend
To nourish all, to serve one gen'ral end.
The good of man: yet man ungrateful pays
But little homage, and but little praise.
To him, whose works array'd with mercy shine,
What songs should rise, how constant, how divine!
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