Ah! why should Virtue fear the frowns of Fate? 70 Hers what no wealth can win, no power create! A little world of clear and cloudless day, Nor wrecked by storms, nor mouldered by decay; But most we mark the wonders of her reign, 80 From Her each image springs, each colour flows. She is the sacred guest! the immortal friend! Oft seen o'er sleeping Innocence to bend, In that dead hour of night to Silence given, When the blithe son of Savoy, journeying round Tho' far below the forked lightnings play, Oft, in the saddle rudely rocked to sleep, And bends, to hear their cherub-voices call, .90 But can her smile with gloomy Madness dwell? Say, can she chase the horrors of his hell? Each fiery flight on Frenzy's wing restrain, 100 And mould the coinage of the fevered brain? Pass but that grate, which scarce a gleam supplies, There in the dust the wreck of Genius lies! He, whose arresting hand sublimely wrought But, as he fondly snatched the wreath of Fame, The spectre Poverty unnerved his frame. Cold was her grasp, a withering scowl she wore; -110 And Hope's soft energies were felt no more. Yet still how sweet the soothings of his art! y > From the rude wall what bright ideas start! Go, spring the mine of elevating thought. Who acts thus wisely, mark the moral Muse, So rich the culture, tho' so small the space, ! 130 But the fond fool, when evening shades the sky, Turns but to start, and gazes but to sigh! The weary waste, that lengthened as he ran, Ah! who can tell the triumphs of the mind, Oft will she rise-with searching glance pursue Some long-loved image vanished from her view; 140 Dart thro' the deep recesses of the past, So thro' the grove the impatient mother flies, Nor yet to pleasing objects are confined The silent feasts of the reflecting mind. 150 Danger and death a dread delight inspire; He counts his scars, and tells what deeds were done. Hail, noblest structures imaged in the wave! 160 A nation's grateful tribute to the brave. Hail, blest retreats from war and shipwreck, hail! That oft arrest the wondering stranger's sail. Long have ye heard the narratives of age, The battle's havoc, and the tempest's rage; Long have ye known Reflection's genial ray Time's sombrous touches soon correct the piece, 175 |