197. The Problem

DOTH then the world go thus, doth all thus move?

Is this the justice which on Earth we find?

Is this that firm decree which all doth bind?

Are these your influences, Powers above?

Those souls which vice’s moody mists most blind,

Blind Fortune, blindly, most their friend doth prove;

And they who thee, poor idol Virtue! love,

Ply like a feather toss’d by storm and wind.

Ah! if a Providence doth sway this all

Why should best minds groan under most distress?

Or why should pride humility make thrall,

And injuries the innocent oppress?

Heavens! hinder, stop this fate; or grant a time

When good may have, as well as bad, their prime!