Page:Works of Voltaire Volume 36.djvu/35

Rh Mysteries like these can no man penetrate, Hid from his view remains the book of fate. Man his own nature never yet could sound, He knows not whence he is, nor whither bound. Atoms tormented on this earthly ball, The sport of fate, by death soon swallowed all, But thinking atoms, who with piercing eyes Have measured the whole circuit of the skies; We rise in thought up to the heavenly throne, But our own nature still remains unknown. This world which error and o'erweening pride, Rulers accursed between them still divide, Where wretches overwhelmed with lasting woe, Talk of a happiness they never know, Is with complaining filled, all are forlorn In seeking bliss ; none would again be born. If in a life midst sorrows past and fears, With pleasure's hand we wipe away our tears,
 * Vol. 36&mdash;2