Confess'd in aught, whose most peculiar ends Are lame and fruitless? Or did Nature mean This pleasing call the herald of a lie; To hide the shame of discord and disease, And catch with fair hypocrisy the heart Of idle faith? O no! with better cares The indulgent mother, conscious how infirm Her offspring tread the paths of good and ill, By this illustrious image, in each kind Still most illustrious where the object holds Its native powers most perfect, she by this Illumes the headstrong impulse of desire, And sanctifies his choice. The generous glebe Whose bosom smiles with verdure, the clear tract Of streams delicious to the thirsty soul, The bloom of nectar'd fruitage ripe to sense, And every charm of animated things, Are only pledges of a state sincere, The integrity and order of their frame, When all is well within, and every end Accomplish'd. Thus was Beauty sent from Heaven, The lovely ministress of truth and good
In this dark world: for truth and good are one, And Beauty dwells in them, and they in her, With like participation.
MIND, mind alone, (bear witness, Earth and Heaven!) The living fountains in itself contains
Of beauteous and sublime: here hand in hand, Sit paramount the Graces; here enthron'd, Celestial Venus, with divinest airs, Invites the soul to never-fading joy.
Look then abroad through Nature, to the range Of planets, suns, and adamantine spheres, Wheeling unshaken through the void immense; And speak, O man! does this capacious scene With half that kindling majesty dilate Thy strong conception, as when Brutus rose Refulgent from the stroke of Cæsar'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 his crimson steel, And bade the father of his country hail? For lo! the tyrant prostrate on the dust, And Rome again is free! Is aught so fair In all the dewy landscapes of the spring, In the Bright eye of Hesper or the Morn, In Nature's fairest forms, is aught so fair As virtuous Friendship? as the candid blush Of him who strives with fortune to be just? The graceful tear that streams for others woes?
Or the mild majesty of private life, Where Peace with ever-blooming olive crowns The gate; where Honour's liberal hands effuse Unenvied treasures, and the snowy wings Of Innocence and Love protect the scene?
PLEASURE NEXT IN THE PASSIONS OF GRIEF, PITY, AND INDIGNATION.
Ask the faithful youth,
Why the cold urn of her whom long he lov'd So often fills his arms; so often draws His lonely footsteps at the silent hour,
Το pay the mournful tribute of his tears? O! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego That sacred hour, 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 cruel winds have hurl'd upon the coast Some helpless bark; while sacred Pity melts The general eye, or Terror's icy hand
Smites their distorted limbs and horrent hair; While every mother closer to her breast
Catches her child, and pointing where the waves
Foam through the shatter'd vessel, shrieks aloud, As one poor wretch that spreads his piteous arms For succour, swallow'd by the roaring surge, As now another, dash'd against the rock, Drops lifeless down: O! deemest thou indeed No kind endearment here by Nature given To mutual terror and Compassion's tears?. No sweetly-melting softness 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 studious gloom thy pausing eye, Led by the glimmering taper, moves around The sacred volumes of the dead, the songs Of Grecian bards, and records writ by Fame For Grecian heroes, where the present power Of Heaven and Earth surveys the immortal page, Even as a father blessing, while he reads The praises of his son. If then thy soul, Spurning the yoke of these inglorious days, Mix in their deeds and kindle with their flame; Say, when the prospect blackens on thy view, When rooted from the base, heroic states Mourn in the dust, and tremble at the frown Of curst Ambition: when the pious band Of youths who fought for freedom and their sires, Lie side by side in gore; when ruffian Pride Usurps the throne of Justice, turns the pomp Of public power, the majesty of rule,
The sword, the laurel, and the purple robe,..
To slavish empty pageants, to adorn A tyrant's walk, and glitter in the eyes Of such as bow the knee; when honour'd urns Of patriots and of chiefs, the awful bust And storied arch, to glut the coward-age Of regal Envy, strew the public way With hallow'd 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 Rapine from the hand of Time Tears the destroying scythe, with surer blow To sweep the works of glory from their base; Till Desolation o'er the grass-grown street Expands his raven-wings, and up the wall, Where senates once the price of monarchs doom'd, Hisses the gliding snake through hoary weeds That clasp the mouldering column; thus defac'd, Thus widely mournful when the prospect thrills Thy beating 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, does thy secret soul repine to taste The big distress? Or would'st thou then exchange Those heart-ennobling sorrows for the lot Of him who sits amid the gaudy herd Of mute barbarians bending to his nod,
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