Pleased to reward, as duty to his will,
A conduct needful to their own repose.
Great God of wonders! (if, thy love survey’d,
Aught else the name of wonderful retains),
What rocks are these, on which to build our trust!
Thy ways admit no blemish; none I find;
Or this alone—“That none is to be found.”
Not one, to soften Censure’s hardy crime;
Not one, to palliate peevish Grief’s Complaint,
Who, like a demon, murmuring from the dust, 470