Sweet instinct leaps; slow reason feebly climbs.
On every thorn, delightful wisdom grows, In every rill a sweet instruction flows.
Affliction is the good man's shining scene; prosperity conceals his brightest ray; as night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
He mourns the dead who lives as they desire.
What is a miracle?--'Tis a reproach, 'Tis an implicit satire on mankind; And while it satisfies, it censures too.
Mine is the night, with all her stars.