BOOK II. 1765.

Thus far of Beauty and the pleasing forms Which man's untutor'd fancy, from the scenes Imperfect of this ever changing world, Creates; and views, enarnour'd. Now my song

Severer themes demand: mysterious Truth; And Virtue, sovereign good: the spells, the trains, The progeny of Error; the dread sway Of Passion; and whatever hidden stores

From her own lofty deeds and from herself The mind acquires. Severer argument: Not less attractive; nor deserving less A constant ear. For what are all the forms

Educed by fancy from corporeal things, Greatness, or pomp, or symmetry of parts? Not tending to the heart, soon feeble grows, As the blunt arrow‘ gainst the knotty trunk,

Their impulse on the sense: while the pall'd eye Expects in vain its tribute; asks in vain, Where are the ornaments it once admired? Not so the moral species, nor the powers

Of Passion and of Thought. The ambitious mind With objects boundless as her own desires Can there converse: by these unfading forms Touch'd and awaken'd still, with eager act

She bends each nerve, and meditates well pleased Her gifts, her godlike fortune. Such the scenes Now opening round us. May the destined verse Maintain its equal tenor, though in tracts

Obscure and arduous! May the source of light, All-present, all-sufficient, guide our steps Through every maze! and whom, in childish years, From the loud throng, the beaten paths of wealth

And power, thou didst apart send forth to speak In tuneful words concerning highest things, Him still do thou, O Father, at those hours Of pensive freedom, when the human soul

Shuts out the rumour of the world, him still Touch thou with secret lessons; call thou back Each erring thought; and let the yielding strains From his full bosom, like a welcome rill

Spontaneous from its healthy fountain, flow! But from what name, what favourable sign, What heavenly auspice, rather shall I date My perilous excursion, than from Truth,

That nearest inmate of the human soul; Estranged from whom, the countenance divine Of man, disfigured and dishonour'd, sinks Among inferior things? For to the brutes

Perception and the transient boons of sense Hath Fate imparted; but to man alone Of sublunary beings was it given. Each fleeting impulse on the sensual powers

At leisure to review; with equal eye To scan the passion of the stricken nerve, Or the vague object striking; to conduct From sense, the portal turbulent and loud,

Into the mind's wide palace one by one The frequent, pressing, fluctuating forms, And question and compare them. Thus he learns Their birth and fortunes; how allied they haunt

The avenues of sense; what laws direct Their union; and what various discords rise, Or fixed, or casual; which when his clear thought Retains and when his faithful words express,

That living image of the external scene, As in a polish'd mirror held to view, Is Truth; where'er it varies from the shape And hue of its exemplar, in that part

Dim Error lurks. Moreover, from without When oft the same society of forms In the same order have approach'd his mind, He deigns no more their steps with curious heed

To trace; no more their features or their garb He now examines; but of them and their Condition, as with some diviner's tongue, Affirms what Heaven in every distant place,

Through every future season, will decree. This too is Truth; where'er his prudent lips Wait till experience diligent and slow Has authorised their sentence, this is Truth;

A second, higher kind: the parent this Of Science; or the lofty power herself, Science herself, on whom the wants and cares Of social life depend; the substitute

Of God's own wisdom in this toilsome world; The providence of man. Yet oft in vain, To earn her aid, with fix'd and anxious eye He looks on Nature's and on Fortune's course:

Too much in vain. His duller visual ray The stillness and the persevering acts Of Nature oft elude; and Fortune oft With step fantastic from her wonted walk

Turns into mazes dim; his sight is foil'd; And the crude sentence of his faltering tongue Is but opinion's verdict, half believed, And prone to change. Here thou, who feel'st thine ear

Congenial to my lyre's profounder tone, Pause, and be watchful. Hitherto the stores, Which feed thy mind and exercise her powers, Partake the relish of their native soil,

Their parent earth. But know, a nobler dower Her Sire at birth decreed her; purer gifts From his own treasure; forms which never deign'd In eyes or ears to dwell, within the sense

Of earthly organs; but sublime were placed In his essential reason, leading there That vast ideal host which all his works Through endless ages never will reveal.

Thus then endow'd, the feeble creature man, The slave of hunger and the prey of death, Even now, even here, in earth's dim prison bound, The language of intelligence divine

Attains; repeating oft concerning one And many, past and present, parts and whole, Those sovereign dictates which in furthest heaven, Where no orb rolls, Eternity's fix'd ear

Hears from coeval Truth, when Chance nor Change, Nature's loud progeny, nor Nature's self Dares intermeddle or approach her throne. Ere long, o'er this corporeal world he learns

To extend her sway; while calling from the deep, From earth and air, their multitudes untold Of figures and of motions round his walk, For each wide family some single birth

He sets in view, the impartial type of all Its brethren; suffering it to claim, beyond Their common heritage, no private gift, No proper fortune. Then whate'er his eye

In this discerns, his bold unerring tongue Pronounceth of the kindred, without bound, Without condition. Such the rise of forms Sequester'd far from sense and every spot

Peculiar in the realms of space or time; Such is the throne which man for Truth amid The paths of mutability hath built Secure, unshaken, still; and whence he views,

In matter's mouldering structures, the pure forms Of triangle or circle, cube or cone, Impassive all; whose attributes nor force Nor fate can alter. There he first conceives

True being, and an intellectual world The same this hour and ever. Thence he deems Of his own lot; above the painted shapes That fleeting move o'er this terrestrial scene

Looks up; beyond the adamantine gates Of death expatiates; as his birthright claims Inheritance in all the works of God; Prepares for endless time his plan of life,

And counts the universe itself his home. Whence also but from Truth, the light of minds, Is human fortune gladden'd with the rays Of Virtue? with the moral colours thrown

On every walk of this our social scene, Adorning for the eye of gods and men The passions, actions, habitudes of life, And rendering earth like heaven, a sacred place

Where Love and Praise may take delight to dwell? Let none with heedless tongue from Truth disjoin The reign of Virtue. Ere the dayspring flow'd, Like sisters link'd in Concord's golden chain,

They stood before the great Eternal Mind, Their common parent, and by him were both Sent forth among his creatures, hand in hand, Inseparably join'd; nor e'er did Truth

Find an apt ear to listen to her lore, Which knew not Virtue's voice; nor, save where Truth's Majestic words are heard and understood, Doth Virtue deign to inhabit. Go, inquire

Of Nature; not among Tartarian rocks, Whither the hungry vulture with its prey Returns; not where the lion's sullen roar At noon resounds along the lonely banks

Of ancient Tigris; but her gentler scenes, The dovecote and the shepherd's fold at morn, Consult; or by the meadow's fragrant hedge, In spring-time when the woodlands first are green,

Attend the linnet singing to his mate Couch'd o'er their tender young. To this fond care Thou dost not Virtue's honourable name Attribute; wherefore, save that not one gleam

Of Truth did e'er discover to themselves Their little hearts, or teach them, by the effects Of that parental love, the love itself To judge, and measure its officious deeds?

But man, whose eyelids Truth has fill'd with day, Discerns how skilfully to bounteous ends His wise affections move; with free accord Adopts their guidance; yields himself secure

To Nature's prudent impulse; and converts Instinct to duty and to sacred law. Hence Right and Fit on earth; while thus to man The Almighty Legislator hath explain'd

The springs of action fix'd within his breast; Hath given him power to slacken or restrain Their effort; and hath shewn him how they join Their partial movements with the master-wheel

Of the great world, and serve that sacred end Which he, the unerring reason, keeps in view. For ( if a mortal tongue may speak of him And his dread ways ) even as his boundless eye,

Connecting every form and every change, Beholds the perfect Beauty; so his will, Through every hour producing good to all The family of creatures, is itself

The perfect Virtue. Let the grateful swain Remember this, as oft with joy and praise He looks upon the falling dews which clothe His lawns with verdure, and the tender seed

Nourish within his furrows; when between Dead seas and burning skies, where long unmoved The bark had languish'd, now a rustling gale Lifts o'er the fickle waves her dancing prow,

Let the glad pilot, bursting out in thanks, Remember this; lest blind o'erweening pride Pollute their offerings; lest their selfish heart Say to the heavenly ruler,‘ At our call

Relents thy power; by us thy arm is moved.’ Fools! who of God as of each other deem; Who his invariable acts deduce From sudden counsels transient as their own;

Nor further of his bounty, than the event Which haply meets their loud and eager prayer, Acknowledge; nor, beyond the drop minute Which haply they have tasted, heed the source

That flows for all; the fountain of his love Which, from the summit where he sits enthroned, Pours health and joy, unfailing streams, throughout The spacious region flourishing in view,

The goodly work of his eternal day, His own fair universe; on which alone His counsels fix, and whence alone his will Assumes her strong direction. Such is now

His sovereign purpose; such it was before All multitude of years. For his right arm Was never idle; his bestowing love Knew no beginning; was not as a change

Of mood that woke at last and started up After a deep and solitary sloth Of boundless ages. No; he now is good, He ever was. The feet of hoary Time

Through their eternal course have travell'd o'er No speechless, lifeless desert; but through scenes Cheerful with bounty still; among a pomp Of worlds, for gladness round the Maker's throne

Loud-shouting, or, in many dialects Of hope and filial trust, imploring thence The fortunes of their people: where so fix'd Were all the dates of being, so disposed

To every living soul of every kind The field of motion and the hour of rest, That each the general happiness might serve; And, by the discipline of laws divine

Convinced of folly or chastised from guilt, Each might at length be happy. What remains Shall be like what is past; but fairer still, And still increasing in the godlike gifts

Of Life and Truth. The same paternal hand, From the mute shell-fish gasping on the shore, To men, to angels, to celestial minds, Will ever lead the generations on

Through higher scenes of being; while, supplied From day to day by his enlivening breath, Inferior orders in succession rise To fill the void below. As flame ascends,

As vapours to the earth in showers return, As the poised ocean towards the attracting moon Swells, and the ever-listening planets, charm'd By the sun's call, their onward pace incline,

So all things which have life aspire to God, Exhaustless fount of intellectual day! Centre of souls! Nor doth the mastering voice Of Nature cease within to prompt aright

Their steps; nor is the care of Heaven withheld From sending to the toil external aid; That in their stations all may persevere To climb the ascent of being, and approach

For ever nearer to the life divine. But this eternal fabric was not raised For man's inspection. Though to some be given To catch a transient visionary glimpse

Of that majestic scene which boundless power Prepares for perfect goodness, yet in vain Would human life her faculties expand To embosom such an object. Nor could e'er

Virtue or praise have touch'd the hearts of men, Had not the Sovereign Guide, through every stage Of this their various journey, pointed out New hopes, new toils, which, to their humble sphere

Of sight and strength, might such importance hold As doth the wide creation to his own. Hence all the little charities of life, With all their duties; hence that favourite palm

Of human will, when duty is sufficed, And still the liberal soul in ampler deeds Would manifest herself; that sacred sign Of her revered affinity to Him

Whose bounties are his own; to whom none said, ‘ Create the wisest, fullest, fairest world, And make its offspring happy;’ who, intent Some likeness of Himself among his works

To view, hath pour'd into the human breast A ray of knowledge and of love, which guides Earth's feeble race to act their Maker's part, Self-judging, self-obliged; while, from before

That godlike function, the gigantic power Necessity, though wont to curb the force Of Chaos and the savage elements, Retires abash'd, as from a scene too high

For her brute tyranny, and with her bears Her scornèd followers, Terror, and base Awe Who blinds herself, and that ill-suited pair, Obedience link'd with Hatred. Then the soul

Arises in her strength; and, looking round Her busy sphere, whatever work she views, Whatever counsel bearing any trace Of her Creator's likeness, whether apt

To aid her fellows or preserve herself In her superior functions unimpair'd, Thither she turns exulting: that she claims As her peculiar good: on that, through all

The fickle seasons of the day, she looks With reverence still: to that, as to a fence Against affliction and the darts of pain, Her drooping hopes repair — and, once opposed

To that, all other pleasure, other wealth, Vile, as the dross upon the molten gold, Appears, and loathsome as the briny sea To him who languishes with thirst, and sighs

For some known fountain pure. For what can strive With Virtue? Which of Nature's regions vast Can in so many forms produce to sight Such powerful Beauty? Beauty, which the eye

Of Hatred cannot look upon secure: Which Envy's self contemplates, and is turn'd Ere long to tenderness, to infant smiles, Or tears of humblest love. Is aught so fair

In all the dewy landscapes of the Spring, The Summer's noontide groves, the purple eve At harvest-home, or in the frosty moon Glittering on some smooth sea; is aught so fair

As virtuous friendship? as the honour'd roof Whither, from highest heaven, immortal Love His torch ethereal and his golden bow Propitious brings, and there a temple holds

To whose unspotted service gladly vow'd The social band of parent, brother, child, With smiles and sweet discourse and gentle deeds Adore his power? What gift of richest clime

E'er drew such eager eyes, or prompted such Deep wishes, as the zeal that snatcheth back From Slander's poisonous tooth a foe's renown; Or crosseth Danger in his lion walk,

A rival's life to rescue? as the young Athenian warrior sitting down in bonds, That his great father's body might not want A peaceful, humble tomb? the Roman wife

Teaching her lord how harmless was the wound Of death, how impotent the tyrant's rage, Who nothing more could threaten to afflict Their faithful love? Or is there in the abyss,

Is there, among the adamantine spheres Wheeling unshaken through the boundless void, Aught that with half such majesty can fill The human bosom, as when Brutus rose

Refulgent from the stroke of Caesar's fate Amid the crowd of patriots; and his arm Aloft extending like eternal Jove When guilt brings down the thunder, call'd aloud

On Tully's name, and shook the crimson sword Of justice in his rapt astonish'd eye, And bade the father of his country hail, For lo, the tyrant prostrate on the dust,

And Rome again is free? Thus, through the paths Of human life, in various pomp array'd Walks the wise daughter of the judge of heaven, Fair Virtue; from her father's throne supreme

Sent down to utter laws, such as on earth Most apt he knew, most powerful to promote The weal of all his works, the gracious end Of his dread empire. And, though haply man's

Obscurer sight, so far beyond himself And the brief labours of his little home, Extends not; yet, by the bright presence won Of this divine instructress, to her sway

Pleased he assents, nor heeds the distant goal. To which her voice conducts him. Thus hath God, Still looking toward his own high purpose, fix'd The virtues of his creatures; thus he rules

The parent's fondness and the patriot's zeal; Thus the warm sense of honour and of shame; The vows of gratitude, the faith of love; And all the comely intercourse of praise,

The joy of human life, the earthly heaven! How far unlike them must the lot of guilt Be found! Or what terrestrial woe can match The self-convicted bosom, which hath wrought

The bane of others, or enslaved itself With shackles vile? Not poison, nor sharp fire, Nor the worst pangs that ever monkish hate Suggested, or despotic rage imposed,

Were at that season an unwish'd exchange, When the soul loathes herself; when, flying thence To crowds, on every brow she sees portray'd Pell demons, Hate or Scorn, which drive her back

To solitude, her judge's voice divine To hear in secret, haply sounding through The troubled dreams of midnight, and still, still Demanding for his violated laws

Fit recompense, or charging her own tongue To speak the award of justice on herself. For well she knows what faithful hints within Were whisper'd, to beware the lying forms

Which turn'd her footsteps from the safer way, What cautions to suspect their painted dress, And look with steady eyelid on their smiles, Their frowns, their tears. In vain; the dazzling hues

Of Fancy, and Opinion's eager voice, Too much prevail'd. For mortals tread the path In which Opinion says they follow good Or fly from evil; and Opinion gives

Report of good or evil, as the scene Was drawn by Fancy, pleasing or deform'd; Thus her report can never there be true Where Fancy cheats the intellectual eye

With glaring colours and distorted lines. Is there a man to whom the name of death Brings terror's ghastly pageants conjured up Before him, death-bed groans, and dismal vows,

And the frail soul plunged headlong from the brink Of life and daylight down the gloomy air, An unknown depth, to gulfs of torturing fire Unvisited by mercy? Then what hand

Can snatch this dreamer from the fatal toils Which Fancy and Opinion thus conspire To twine around his heart? Or who shall hush Their clamour, when they tell him that to die,

To risk those horrors, is a direr curse Than basest life can bring? Though Love with prayers Most tender, with affliction's sacred tears, Beseech his aid; though Gratitude and Faith

Condemn each step which loiters; yet let none Make answer for him that if any frown Of Danger thwart his path, he will not stay Content, and be a wretch to be secure.

Here Vice begins then: at the gate of life, Ere the young multitude to diverse roads Part, like fond pilgrims on a journey unknown, Sits Fancy, deep enchantress; and to each

With kind maternal looks presents her bowl, A potent beverage. Heedless they comply, Till the whole soul from that mysterious draught Is tinged, and every transient thought imbibes

Of gladness or disgust, desire or fear, One homebred colour, which not all the lights Of Science e'er shall change; not all the storms Of adverse Fortune wash away, nor yet

The robe of purest Virtue quite conceal. Thence on they pass, where, meeting frequent shapes Of good and evil, cunning phantoms apt To fire or freeze the breast, with them they join

In dangerous parley; listening oft, and oft Gazing with reckless passion, while its garb The spectre heightens, and its pompous tale Repeats, with some new circumstance to suit

That early tincture of the hearer's soul. And should the guardian, Reason, but for one Short moment yield to this illusive scene His ear and eye, the intoxicating charm

Involves him, till no longer he discerns, Or only guides to err. Then revel forth A furious band that spurn him from the throne, And all is uproar. Hence Ambition climbs

With sliding feet and hands impure, to grasp Those solemn toys which glitter in his view On Fortune's rugged steep; hence pale Revenge Unsheaths her murderous dagger; Rapine hence

And envious Lust, by venal fraud upborne, Surmount the reverend barrier of the laws Which kept them from their prey; hence all the crimes That e'er defiled the earth, and all the plagues

That follow them for vengeance, in the guise Of Honour, Safety, Pleasure, Ease, or Pomp, Stole first into the fond believing mind. Yet not by Fancy's witchcraft on the brain

Are always the tumultuous passions driven To guilty deeds, nor Reason bound in chains That Vice alone may lord it. Oft, adorn'd With motley pageants, Folly mounts his throne,

And plays her idiot antics, like a queen. A thousand garbs she wears: a thousand ways She whirls her giddy empire. Lo, thus far With bold adventure to the Mantuan lyre

I sing for contemplation link'd with love, A pensive theme. Now haply should my song Unbend that serious countenance, and learn Thalia's tripping gait, her shrill-toned voice,

Her wiles familiar: whether scorn she darts In wanton ambush from her lip or eye, Or whether, with a sad disguise of care O'ermantling her gay brow, she acts in sport

The deeds of Folly, and from all sides round Calls forth impetuous Laughter's gay rebuke; Her province. But through every comic scene To lead my Muse with her light pencil arm'd;

Through every swift occasion which the hand Of Laughter points at, when the mirthful sting Distends her labouring sides and chokes her tongue, Were endless as to sound each grating note

With which the rooks, and chattering daws, and grave Unwieldy inmates of the village pond, The changing seasons of the sky proclaim; Sun, cloud, or shower. Suffice it to have said,

Where'er the power of Ridicule displays Her quaint-eyed visage, some incongruous form, Some stubborn dissonance of things combined, Strikes on her quick perception: whether Pomp,

Or Praise, or Beauty be dragg'd in and shewn Where sordid fashions, where ignoble deeds, Where foul Deformity is wont to dwell; Or whether these with shrewd and wayward spite

Invade resplendent Pomp's imperious mien, The charms of Beauty, or the boast of Praise. Ask we for what fair end the Almighty Sire In mortal bosoms stirs this gay contempt,

These grateful pangs of laughter; from disgust Educing pleasure? Wherefore, but to aid The tardy steps of Reason, and at once By this prompt impulse urge us to depress

Wild Folly's aims? For, though the sober light Of Truth slow dawning on the watchful mind At length unfolds, through many a subtle tie, How these uncouth disorders end at last

In public evil; yet benignant Heaven, Conscious how dim the dawn of Truth appears To thousands, conscious what a scanty pause From labour and from care the wider lot

Of humble life affords for studious thought To scan the maze of Nature, therefore stamp'd These glaring scenes with characters of scorn, As broad, as obvious to the passing clown

As to the letter'd sage's curious eye. But other evils o'er the steps of man Through all his walks impend; against whose might The slender darts of Laughter nought avail:

A trivial warfare. Some, like cruel guards, On Nature's ever-moving throne attend; With mischief arm'd for him whoe'er shall thwart The path of her inexorable wheels,

While she pursues the work that must be done Through ocean, earth, and air. Hence, frequent forms Of woe; the merchant, with his wealthy bark, Buried by dashing waves; the traveller,

Pierced by the pointed lightning in his haste; And the poor husbandman, with folded arms, Surveying his lost labours, and a heap Of blasted chaff the product of the field

Whence he expected bread. But worse than these, I deem far worse, that other race of ills Which human kind rear up among themselves; That horrid offspring which misgovern'd Will

Bears to fantastic Error; vices, crimes, Furies that curse the earth, and make the blows, The heaviest blows, of Nature's innocent hand Seem sport: which are indeed but as the care

Of a wise parent, who solicits good To all her house, though haply at the price Of tears and froward wailing and reproach From some unthinking child, whom not the less

Its mother destines to be happy still. These sources then of pain, this double lot Of evil in the inheritance of man, Required for his protection no slight force,

No careless watch; and therefore was his breast Fenced round with passions quick to be alarm'd, Or stubborn to oppose; with Fear, more swift Than beacons catching flame from hill to hill,

Where armies land: with Anger, uncontroll'd As the young lion bounding on his prey; With Sorrow, that locks up the struggling heart; And Shame, that overcasts the drooping eye

As with a cloud of lightning. These the part Perform of eager monitors, and goad The soul more sharply than with points of steel, Her enemies to shun or to resist.

And as those passions, that converse with good, Are good themselves; as Hope and Love and Joy, Among the fairest and the sweetest boons Of life, we rightly count: so these, which guard

Against invading evil, still excite Some pain, some tumult; these, within the mind Too oft admitted or too long retain'd, Shock their frail seat, and by their uncurb'd rage

To savages more fell than Libya breeds Transform themselves, till human thought becomes A gloomy ruin, haunt of shapes unbless'd, Of self-tormenting fiends; Horror, Despair,

Hatred, and wicked Envy: foes to all The works of Nature and the gifts of Heaven. But when through blameless paths to righteous ends Those keener passions urge the awaken'd soul,

I would not, as ungracious violence, Their sway describe, nor from their free career The fellowship of Pleasure quite exclude. For what can render, to the self-approved,

Their temper void of comfort, though in pain? Who knows not with what majesty divine The forms of Truth and Justice to the mind Appear, ennobling oft the sharpest woe

With triumph and rejoicing? Who, that bears A human bosom, hath not often felt How dear are all those ties which bind our race In gentleness together, and how sweet

Their force, let Fortune's wayward hand the while Be kind or cruel? Ask the faithful youth, Why the cold urn of her whom long he loved So often fills his arms; so often draws

His lonely footsteps, silent and unseen, To pay the mournful tribute of his tears? Oh! he will tell thee that the wealth of worlds Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego

Those sacred hours when, stealing from the noise Of care and envy, sweet remembrance soothes With Virtue's kindest looks his aching breast, And turns his tears to rapture. Ask the crowd,

Which flies impatient from the village walk To climb the neighbouring cliffs, when far below The savage winds have hurl'd upon the coast Some helpless bark; while holy Pity melts

The general eye, or Terror's icy hand Smites their distorted limbs and horrent hair; While every mother closer to her breast Catcheth her child, and, pointing where the waves

Foam through the shatter'd vessel, shrieks aloud As one poor wretch, who spreads his piteous arms For succour, swallow'd by the roaring surge, As now another, dash'd against the rock,

Drops lifeless down. Oh! deemest thou indeed No pleasing influence here by Nature given To mutual terror and compassion's tears? No tender charm mysterious, which attracts

O'er all that edge of pain the social powers To this their proper action and their end? Ask thy own heart; when at the midnight hour, Slow through that pensive gloom thy pausing eye,

Led by the glimmering taper, moves around The reverend volumes of the dead, the songs Of Grecian bards, and records writ by fame For Grecian heroes, where the sovereign Power

Of heaven and earth surveys the immortal page, Even as a father meditating all The praises of his son, and bids the rest Of mankind there the fairest model learn

Of their own nature, and the noblest deeds Which yet the world hath seen. If then thy soul Join in the lot of those diviner men; Say, when the prospect darkens on thy view;

When, sunk by many a wound, heroic states Mourn in the dust and tremble at the frown Of hard Ambition; when the generous band Of youths who fought for freedom and their sires

Lie side by side in death; when brutal Force Usurps the throne of Justice, turns the pomp Of guardian power, the majesty of rule, The sword, the laurel, and the purple robe,

To poor dishonest pageants, to adorn A robber's walk, and glitter in the eyes Of such as bow the knee; when beauteous works, Rewards of virtue, sculptured forms which deck'd

With more than human grace the warrior's arch, Or patriot's tomb, now victims to appease Tyrannic envy, strew the common path With awful ruins; when the Muse's haunt,

The marble porch where Wisdom wont to talk With Socrates or Tully, hears no more Save the hoarse jargon of contentious monks, Or female Superstition's midnight prayer;

When ruthless Havoc from the hand of Time Tears the destroying scythe, with surer stroke To mow the monuments of Glory down; Till Desolation o'er the grass-grown street

Expands her raven wings, and, from the gate Where senates once the weal of nations plann'd, Hisseth the gliding snake through hoary weeds That clasp the mouldering column: thus when all

The widely-mournful scene is fix'd within Thy throbbing bosom; when the patriot's tear Starts from thine eye, and thy extended arm In fancy hurls the thunderbolt of Jove

To fire the impious wreath on Philip's brow, Or dash Octavius from the trophied car; Say, doth thy secret soul repine to taste The big distress? Or wouldst thou then exchange

Those heart-ennobling sorrows for the lot Of him who sits amid the gaudy herd Of silent flatterers bending to his nod; And o'er them, like a giant, casts his eye,

And says within himself,‘ I am a King, And wherefore should the clamorous voice of woe Intrude upon mine ear?’ The dregs corrupt Of barbarous ages, that Circaean draught

Of servitude and folly, have not yet, Bless'd be the Eternal Ruler of the world! Yet have not so dishonour'd, so deform'd The native judgment of the human soul,

Nor so effaced the image of her Sire.