Even on the barriers of the world untir'd
She meditates the eternal depth below;
Till half recoiling, down the headlong steep
She plunges; foon o'erwhelm'd and fwallow'd up 210
In that immense of being. There her hopes
Reft at the fated goal. For from the birth
Of mortal man, the fovereign Maker said,
That not in humble nor in brief delight,
Not in the fading echoes of renown,
Power's purple robes, nor pleasure's flowery lap,
The foul fhould find enjoyment: but from thefe
Turning difdainful to an equal good,
Through all the afcent of things inlarge her view,
Till every bound at length should disappear,
And infinite perfection close the scene.
Call now to mind what high capacious powers
Lie folded up in man; how far beyond
The praife of mortals, may the eternal growth
Of nature to perfection half divine,
Expand the blooming foul? What pity then
Should floth's unkindly fogs deprefs to earth
Her tender bloffom; choak the ftreams of life,
And blaft her fpring! Far otherwife defign'd
Almighty wifdom; nature's happy cares
The obedient heart far otherwife incline.
Witnefs the fprightly joy when aught unknown
Strikes the quick fenfe, and wakes each active
To brifker measures: witnefs the neglect
Of all familiar profpects, though beheld
With tranfport once; the fond attentive gaze
Of age, commenting on prodigious things,
For fuch the bounteous providence of heaven,
In every breast implanting this defire
Of objects new and ftrange, to urge us on
With unremitted labour to pursue
Thofe facred ftores that wait the ripening foul,
In Truth's exhaustless bofom. What need words
To paint its power? For this the daring youth
Breaks from his weeping mother's anxious arms,
In foreign climes to rove: the penfive sage,
Heedlefs of fleep, or midnight's harmful damp,
Hangs o'er the fickly taper; and untir'd
The virgin follows, with inchanted step,
The mazes of fome wild and wondrous tale,
From morn to eve; unmindful of her form,
Unmindful of the happy dress that stole
The wishes of the youth, when every maid
With envy pin'd. Hence, finally, by night
The village-matron, round the blazing hearth,
Sufpends the infant-audience with her tales,
Breathing aftonishment! of witching rhymes,
And evil fpirits; of the death-bed call
Of him who robb'd the widow, and devour'd
The orphan's portion; of unquiet fouls
Rifen from the grave to ease the heavy guilt
Of deeds in life conceal'd; of fhapes that walk
At dead of night, and clank their chains, and wave
The torch of hell around the murderer's bed.
At every folemn pause the croud recoil
Gazing each other fpeechlefs, and congeal'd
With shivering fighs: till eager for the event,
Around the Beldame all erect they hang,
Each trembling heart with grateful terrors quell'd. 270
But lo! difclos'd in all her fmiling pomp,
Where beauty onward moving claims the verse
Her charms inspire: the freely-flowing verfe
In thy immortal praife, O form divine,
Smooths her mellifluent ftream. Thee, Beauty, thee 275
The regal dome, and thy enlivening ray
The moffy roofs adore: thou, better fun!
For ever beameft on the enchanted heart
Love, and harmonious wonder, and delight
Poetic. Brighteft progeny of heaven !
How fhall I trace thy features? where select
The rofeate hues to emulate thy bloom?
Hafte then, my fong, through nature's wide expanfe,. Hafte then, and gather all her comelieft wealth, Whate'er bright fpoils the florid earth contains, 285 Whate'er the waters, or the liquid air,
To deck thy lovely labour. Wilt thou fly
With laughing Autumn to the Atlantic ifles,
And range with him the Hefperian field, and fee
Where'er his fingers touch the fruitful grove,
The branches shoot with gold; where'er his step
Marks the glad foil, the tender clusters grow
With purple ripenefs, and inveft each hill
As with the blushes of an evening sky?
Or wilt thou rather ftoop thy vagrant plume,
Where gliding through his daughter's honour'd fhades,
The fmooth Peneus from his glaffy flood
Reflects purpureal Tempe's pleasant scene?
Fair Tempe! haunt belov'd of fylvan powers,
Of Nymphs and Fauns; where in the golden age 300
They play'd in fecret on the fhady brink
With ancient Pan: while round their choral steps
Young Hours and genial Gales with conftant hand
Shower'd bloffoms, odours, fhower'd ambrofial dews,
And spring's Elyfian bloom. Her flowery ftore 305
To thee nor Tempe fhall refufe; nor watch
Of winged Hydra guard Hefperian fruits.
From thy free fpoil. O bear then, unreprov'd,.
Thy fmiling treasures to the
green recefs
Where young Dione stays. With fweetest airs
Intice her forth to lend her angel-form
For Beauty's honour'd image. Hither turn
Thy graceful footsteps; hither, gentle maid,
Incline thy polifh'd forehead: let thy eyes
Effufe the mildnefs of their azure dawn;
And may the fanning breezes waft afide
Thy radiant locks: difclofing, as it bends
With airy foftness from the marble neck,
The cheek fair-blooming, and the rofy lip,"
Where winning fmiles and pleafures fweet as love, 320
With fanctity and wifdom, tempering blend
Their foft allurement. Then the pleasing force
Of nature, and her kind parental care
Worthier I'd fing: then all the enamour'd youth,
With each admiring virgin, to my lyre
Should throng attentive, while I point on high
Where beauty's living image, like the morn
That wakes in Zephyr's arms the blushing May,
Moves onward; or as Venus, when she stood
Effulgent on the pearly car, and fmil'd,
Fresh from the deep, and conscious of her form,
To see the Tritons tune their vocal shells,
And each coerulean fifter of the flood
With loud acclaim attend her o'er the waves,
To feek the Idalian bower. Ye smiling band
Of youths and virgins, who through all the maze
Of young defire with rival-fteps purfue
This charm of beauty; if the pleafing toil
Can yield a moment's refpite, hither turn
Your favourable ear, and truft my words.
I do not mean to wake the gloomy form
Of fuperftition drefs'd in Wifdom's garb,
To damp your tender hopes; I do not mean
To bid the jealous thunderer fire the heavens,
Or fhapes infernal rend the groaning earth
To fright you from your joys: my chearful fong
With better omens calls you to the field,
Pleas'd with your generous ardour in the chace,
And warm like you. Then tell me, for ye know,
Does beauty ever deign to dwell where health
And active use are strangers? Is her charm
Confefs'd in aught, whofe moft peculiar ends
Are lame and fruitlefs? Or did nature mean
This pleafing call the herald of a lye;
To hide the fhame of difcord and disease,
And catch with fair hypocrify the heart
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