For instant fled the momentary joy;—
Would thou hadst still the fatal bliss deny’d,
And then, as now, been more severely coy!
Can one slight show’r refresh the thirsty field?
One single plant with verdure clothe the plain?—
One star to yon wide arch its radiance yield?—
Or one small rill supply the boundless main?
The skies, unnumber’d, all their bounties pour;—
In such profusion are their blessings given,
Ev’n thankless man must own the wond’rous store