True, there is no conscience in the brute, beyond some educated habit,
They lay them down without a fear, and wake without a hope:
Hunger and pain is of the animal: but when did they reckon or compare?
They live, idealess, in instinct; and while they breathe they gain:
The master is an idol to his dog, who cannot rise beyond him;
And void of capability for God, there would seem small cause for an infinity.
Therefore, caviller, my poor thoughts dare not grant they live:
But is it not a great thing to assume their annihilation—and thine own?
Would it be much if a speck on space, this globe with all its millions,
Verily, after its pollution, were suffered to exist in purity?