What conscience has the murd’erous Moor, who slays his guest with felon blow, Save sorrow he can slay no more, what prick of pen’itence can he know?

You cry the “Cruelty of Things” is myst’ery to your purblind eye, Which fixed upon a point in space the general project passes by:

For see! the Mammoth went his ways, became a mem’ory and a name; While the half-reasoner with the hand* survives his rank and place to claim.

Earthquake and plague, storm, fight and fray, portents and curses man must deem Since he regards his self alone, nor cares to trace the scope, the scheme;

The Quake that comes in eyelid’s beat to ruin, level, ’gulf and kill, Builds up a world for better use, to general Good bends special Ill: