And, while with freedom on their lips, They may, themselves, be slaves as low As ever Lord or Patron made To blossom in his smile, or grow, Like stunted brushwood, in his shade. Out on the craft! - I'd rather be One of those hinds, that round me tread, With just enough of sense to see The noonday sun that's o'er his head, Than thus, with high-built genius curst, That hath no heart for its foundation, Be all, at once, that's brightest, worst, Sublimest, meanest in creation! ALCIPHRON. LETTER I. FROM ALCIPHRON AT ALEXANDRIA TO CLEON AT ATHENS WELL may you wonder at my flight From those fair Gardens, in whose bowers Lingers whate'er of wise and bright, Of Beauty's smile or Wisdom's light, Is left to grace this world of ours. Well may my comrades, as they roam, On such sweet eves as this, inquire Why I have left that happy home Where all is found that all desire, And Time hath wings that never tire; Where bliss, in all the countless shapes That Fancy's self to bliss hath given, Comes clustering round, like road-side grapes That woo the traveller's lip, at even; Where Wisdom flings not joy away – As Pallas in the stream, they say, Once flung her flute but smiling owns That woman's lip can send forth tones |