One was their sire, one was their common mother,
Plants are his sisters, and the beast his brother,
The elder too; beasts draw the selfsame breath,
Wax old alike, and die the selfsame death:
Plants grow as he, with fairer robes array'd;
Alike they flourish, and alike they fade:
The beast in sense exceeds him, and in growth,
The three-ag'd oak doth thrice exceed them both.
Why look'st thou then so big, thou little span
Of earth; what art thou more in being man?
I, but my great Creator did inspire
My chosen earth with the diviner fire
Of reason; gave me judgment and a will;
That, to know good; this, to choose good from ill: He puts the reins of pow'r in my free hand,
A jurisdiction over sea and land;
He gave me art to lengthen out my span
Of life, and made me all, in being man :
I, but thy passion has committed treason
Against the sacred person of thy reason:
Thy judgment is corrupt, perverse thy will;
That knows no good, and this makes choice of ill:
The greater height sends down the deeper fall;
And good declin'd, turns bad, turns worst of all.
Say then, proud inch of living earth, what can
Thy greatness claim the more in being man?
O! but my soul transcends the pitch of nature,
Borne up by th' image of her high Creator;
Outbraves the life of reason, and bears down
Her waxen wings, kicks off her brazen crown.
My heart's a living temple t' entertain
The King of Glory, and his glorious train:
How can I mend my title then? where can
Ambition find a higher style than Man?
Ah! but that image is defac'd and soil'd;
Her temple's razʼd, her altars all defil'd;
Her vessels are polluted and distain'd
With loathed lust, her ornaments profan'd;
Her oil-forsaken lamps and hallow'd tapers
Put out; her incense breathes unsav'ry vapours:
Why swell'st thou then so big, thou little span
Of earth! what art thou more in being man?
Eternal Potter, whose blest hands did lay
My coarse foundation from a sod of clay,
Thou know'st my slender vessel's apt to leak;
Thou know'st my brittle temper's prone to break :
Are my bones brazil, or my flesh of oak?
O mend what thou hast made, what I have broke:
Look, look with gentle eyes, and, in thy day
Of vengeance, LORD, remember I am clay.
S. AUGUST. Soliloq. xxxii.
Shall I ask who made me? It was thou that madest me, without whom nothing was made: thou art my Maker, and I thy work. I thank thee, my LORD GOD, by whom I live, and by whom all things subsist, because thou madest me: I thank thee, O my Potter, because thy hands have formed me.
Why swell'st thou, man, puff'd up with fame and purse?
Th' art better earth, but born to dig the worse: Thou cam'st from earth, to earth thou must return; And art but earth, cast from the womb to th' urn.
I have sinned: What shall I do unto thee, O thou Preserver of men? why dost thou set me as a mark against thee?
LORD, I have done; and, LORD, I have misdone; 'Tis folly to contest, to strive with one
That is too strong; 'tis folly to assail
Or prove an arm, that will, that must, prevail.
I've done, I've done; these trembling hands have
Their daring weapons down: the day's thine own:
Forbear to strike where thou hast won the field,
The palm, the palm is thine: I yield, I yield.
These treach'rous hands, that were so vainly bold
To try a thriveless combat, and to hold
Self-wounded weapons up, are now extended
For mercy from thy hand; that knee that bended
Upon her guardless guard, doth now repent
Upon this naked floor; see both are bent,
And sue for pity: O my ragged wound
Is deep and desp'rate, it is drench'd and drown'd
In blood and briny tears: it doth begin
To stink without, and putrefy within.
Let that victorious hand that now appears
Just in my blood, prove gracious to my tears:
Thou great Preserver of presumptuous man,
What shall I do? what satisfaction can
Poor dust and ashes make? O if that blood,
That yet remains unshed, were half as good
As blood of oxen, if my death might be
An off'ring to atone my GoD and me,
I would disdain injurious life, and stand
A suitor to be wounded from thy hand.
But may thy wrongs be measur'd by the span
Of life, or balanc'd with the blood of man?
No, no, eternal sin expects, for guerdon,
Eternal penance, or eternal pardon :
Lay down thy weapons, turn thy wrath away,
And pardon him that hath no price to pay;
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