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.