IV.] ABDOMEN AND SECRETIVE ORGANS. 107 



" On books deep poring, ye pale sons of toil, 

 Who waste in studious trance the midnight oil, 

 Say, can ye emulate, with all your rules, 

 Drawn or from Grecian or from Gothic schools. 

 This artless frame ? Instinct her simple guide, 

 A heaven-taught insect baffles all your pride. 

 Or ye on theory's wild wave that roam. 

 And skim from science but its froth and foam, 

 Who wield 'gainst Truth the sharp yet shivery lance. 

 Devoted bending to your idol, Chance ; 

 Oh ! say, could Chance her lawless atoms bind, 

 And weave the tissued woof of sense and mind. 

 Or her blind impulse in yon mansions trace 

 The firmest fabric with the amplest space ? 

 No ! while ye boast to bow at Reason's shrine, 

 That Reason bids you hail the Power Divine. 

 Not huge Behemoth, not the whale's vast form. 

 That spouts a torrent and that breathes a storm, 

 Transcends in organs apt the puny fly, 

 Her fine-strung feelers, and her glanceful eye 

 Set with ten thousand lenses. Not the pile 

 By fabled giant raised in Erin's isle. 

 Not Staffa's crystalled shore, where now, Fingal, 

 Roar the hoarse surges through thy columned hall, 

 Nor all yon marshalled orbs that ride so high. 

 Proclaim more loud a present Deity, 

 Than the nice symmetry of these small cells. 

 Where on each angle genuine Science dwells, 

 And joys to mark through wide creation's reign 

 How close the lessening links of her continued chain. " 



