XLIV

Even such the contrast that, where'er we move,

To the mind's eyeReligion doth present;

Now with her own deep quietness content;

Then, like the mountain, thundering from above

Against the ancient pine-trees of the grove

And the Land's humblest comforts. Now her mood

Recals the transformation of the flood,

Whose rage the gentle skies in vain reprove,

Earth cannot check. O terrible excess

Of headstrong will! Can this be Piety?

No — some fierce Maniac hath usurped her name;

And scourges England struggling to be free:

Her peace destroyed! her hopes a wilderness!

Her blessings cursed — her glory turned to shame!