Young.

’Tis Reason our great Master holds so dear;

’Tis Reason’s injured rights His wrath resents;

’Tis Reason’s voice obeyed, His glories crown;

To give lost Reason life, He poured His own.

Young.

With scanty line shall Reason dare to mete

Th’ immeasurable depths of Providence?

On the swol’n bladders of opinion borne,

She floats awhile, then, floundering, sinks absorbed