THro' the wild maze of life's still varying plan,
Bliss is alone th' important task of man.
All else is trifling, whether grave or gay,
A Newton's labours, or an infant's play;
Whether this vainly wastes th' unheeded sun,
Or those more vainly mark the course it run;
For of the two, sure smaller is the fault,
To err unthinking, than to err with thought;
But if, like them, we still must trifles use,
Harmless at least, like theirs, be those we chuse.
Enough it is that reason blames the choice,
Join not to her's the wretch's plaintive voice;
Be folly free from guilt: let foplings play,
Or write, or talk, or dress, or die away.
Let those, if such there be, whose giant-mind
Superior tow'rs above their pigmy kind,
Unaided and alone, the realms explore,
Where hail and snow renew their treasur'd store.
Lo! heav'n spreads all its stars; let those explain,
What balanc'd pow'rs the rolling orb sustain;
Nor in more humble scales, pernicious weigh
Sense, justice, truth, against seducing pay.
So distant regions shall employ their thought,
And spotless senates here remain unbought.