To Delia Pensive

Say, Delia, whence these cares arise,
These anxious cares which rack your breast?
If heaven is infinitely wise,
What heav'n ordains, is right, is best.

'Tis wisdom, mercy, love divine,
Which mingles blessings with our cares;
And shall our thankless hearts repine
That we obtain not all our prayers?

From diffidence our sorrows flow;
Short-sighted mortals, weak and blind,
Bend down their eyes to earth and woe,
And doubt if providence is kind.

Should heaven with every wish comply,
Say, would the grant relieve the care?
Perhaps the good for which we sigh,
Might change its name, and prove a snare.

Were once our vain desires subdu'd,
The will resign'd, the heart at rest;
In ev'ry scene we should conclude,
The will of heav'n is right, is best.