Two gardeners once beneath an oak
Lay down to rest, when Jack thus spoke—
“You must confess, dear Will, that Nature
Is but a blundering kind of creature;
And I—nay, why that look of terror?
Could teach her how to mend her error.”
“Your talk,” quoth Will, “is bold and odd;
What you call Nature, I call God.”
“Well, call him by what name you will.”
Quoth Jack, “he manages but ill;
Nay, from the very tree we’re under,
I’ll prove that Providence can blunder.”
Quoth Will, “Through thick and thin you dash;
I shudder, Jack, at words so rash;
I trust to what the Scriptures tell—
He hath done always all things well.”
Quoth Jack, “I’m lately grown a wit,
And think all good a lucky hit.
To prove that Providence can err,
Not words, but facts, the truth aver.
To this vast oak lift up thine eyes,
Then view that acorn’s paltry size;
How foolish, on a tree so tall,
To place that tiny cup and ball!
Now look again; yon pompion see;
It weighs two pounds at least, nay three;
Yet this large fruit, where is it found?
Why, meanly trailing on the ground.
Had Providence asked my advice,
I would have changed it in a trice;
I would have said, at Nature’s birth,
‘Let acorns creep upon the earth;
But let the pompion, vast and round,
On the oak’s lofty boughs be found.’”
He said—and as he rashly spoke,
Lo! from the branches of the oak,
A wind, which suddenly arose,
Beat showers of acorns on his nose.
“O! O!” quoth Jack, “I’m wrong, I see,
And God is wiser far than me.
For did a shower of pompions large
Thus on my naked face discharge,
I had been bruised and blinded quite;
What Heaven appoints I find is right;
Whene’er I’m tempted to rebel,
I’ll think how light the acorns fell;
Whereas on oaks had pompions hung,
My broken skull had stopped my tongue.