The Pleasures of Imagination, Book the Third

     What wonder therefore, since th’indearing
Of passion link the universal kind        (ties
Of man so close, what wonder if to search
This common nature thro’ the various change
Of sex, and age, and fortune, and the frame
Of each peculiar, draw the busy mind
With unresisted charms? The spacious west,
And all the teeming regions of the south
Hold not a quarry, to the curious flight
Of knowledge, half so tempting or so fair,
As man to man. Nor only where the smiles
Of love invite; nor only where th’ applause
Of cordial honour turns th’ attentive eye
On virtue’s graceful deeds. For since the course
Of things external acts in different ways
On human apprehensions, as the hand
Of nature temper’d to a different frame
Peculiar minds; so haply where the pow’rs
Of fancy neither lessen nor enlarge
The images of things, but paint in all
Their genuine hues, the features which they wore
In nature; there opinion will be true,
And action right. For action treads the path
In which opinion says he follows good,
Or flies from evil; and opinion gives
Report of good or evil, as the scene
Was drawn by fancy, lovely or deform’d:
Thus her report can never there be true,
Where fancy cheats the intellectual eye,
With glaring colours and distorted lines.
Is there a man, who at the sound of death,
Sees ghastly shapes of terror conjur’d up,
And black before him; nought but death-bed groans,
And fearful pray’rs, and plunging from the brink
Of light and being, down the gloomy air,
An unknown depth? Alas! in such a mind,
If no bright forms of excellence attend
The image of his country; nor the pomp
Of sacred senates, nor the guardian voice
Of justice on her throne, nor aught that wakes
The conscious bosom with a patriot’s flame;
Will not opinion tell him, that to die,
Or stand the hazard, is a greater ill
Than to betray his country? And in act
Will he not chuse to be a wretch and live?
Here vice begins then. From th’ inchanting cup
Which fancy holds to all, th’ unwary thirst
Of youth oft swallows a Circaean draught,
That sheds a baleful tincture o’er the eye
Of reason, till no longer he discerns,
And only guides to err. Then revel forth
A furious band that spurn him from the throne;
And all is uproar. Thus ambition grasps
The empire of the soul: thus pale revenge
Unsheaths her murd’rous dagger; and the hands
Of lust and rapine, with unholy arts,
Watch to o’erturn the barrier of the laws
That keeps them from their prey: thus all the plagues
The wicked bear, or o’er the trembling scene
The tragic muse discloses, under shapes
Of honour, safety, pleasure, ease or pomp,
Stole first into the mind. Yet not by all
Those lying forms which fancy in the brain
Engenders, are the kindling passions driv’n
To guilty deeds; nor reason bound in chains,
That vice alone may lord it: oft adorn’d
With solemn pageants, folly mounts his throne,
And plays her ideot-anticks, like a queen.
A thousand garbs she wears; a thousand ways
She wheels her giddy empire. — Lo! thus far
With bold adventure, to the Mantuan lyre
I sing of nature’s charms, and touch well-pleas’d
A stricter note: now haply must my song
Unbend her serious measure, and reveal
In lighter strains, how folly’s aukward arts
Excite impetuous laughter’s gay rebuke;
The sportive province of the comic muse.

      See! in what crouds the uncouth forms advance,
Each would outstrip the other, each prevent
Our careful search, and offer to your gaze,
Unask’d, his motley features. Wait awhile,
My curious friends! and let us first arrange
In proper orders your promiscuous throng.

     Behold the foremost band; of slender thought,
And easy faith; whom flatt’ring fancy sooths
With lying spectres, in themselves to view
Illustrious forms of excellence and good,
That scorn the mansion. With exulting hearts
They spread their spurious treasures to the sun;
And bid the world admire! but chief the glance
Of wishful envy draws their joy-bright eyes,
And lists with self-applause each lordly brow.
In number boundless as the blooms of spring,
Behold their glaring idols, empty shades
By fancy gilded o’er, and then set up
For adoration. Some in learning’s garb,
With formal band and sable-cinctur’d gown,
And rags of mouldy volumes. Some elate
With martial splendour, steely pikes, and swords
Of costly frame, and gay Phoenician robes
Inwrought with flow’ring gold, assume the port
Of stately valour: list’ning by his side
There stands a female form; to her, with looks
Of earnest import, pregnant with amaze,
He talks of deadly deeds, of breaches, storms,
And sulph’rous mines, and ambush: then at once
Breaks off, and smiles to see her look so pale,
And asks some wond’ring question of her fears.
Others of graver mien; behold, adorn’d
With holy ensigns, how sublime they move,
And bending oft their sanctimonious eyes,
Take homage of the simple-minded throng;
Ambassadors of heav’n! Nor much unlike
Is he whose visage, in the lazy mist
That mantles every feature, hides a brood
Of politic conceits; of whispers, nods,
And hints deep-omen’d with unwieldy schemes,
And dark portents of state. Ten thousand more,
Prodigious habits and tumultuous tongues,
Pour dauntless in and swell the boastful band.

     Then comes the second order; all who seek
The debt of praise, where watchful unbelief
Darts thro’ the thin pretence her squinting eye
On some retir’d appearance which belies
The boasted virtue, or annulls th’ applause
That justice else would pay. Here side by side
I see two leaders of the solemn train,
Approaching: one a female, old and grey,
With eyes demure and wrinkle-furrow’d brow,
Pale as the cheeks of death; yet still she stuns
The sickning audience with a nauseous tale;
How many youths her myrtle chains have worn,
How many virgins at her triumphs pin’d!
Yet how resolv’d she guards her cautious heart;
Such is her terror at the risques of love,
And man’s seducing tongue! The other seems
A bearded sage, ungentle in his mien,
And sordid all his habit; peevish want
Grins at his heels, while down the gazing throng
He stalks, resounding in magnific phrase
The vanity of riches, the contempt
Of pomp and pow’r. Be prudent in your zeal,
Ye grave associates! let the silent grace
Of her who blushes at the fond regard
Her charms inspire, more eloquent unfold
The praise of spotless honour: let the man
Whose eye regards not his illustrious pomp
And ample store, but as indulgent streams
To chear the barren soil and spread the fruits
Of joy, let him by juster measure fix
The price of riches and the end of pow’r.

     Another tribe succeeds; deluded long
By fancy’s dazzling optics, these behold
The images of some peculiar things
With brighter hues resplendent, and portray’d
With features nobler far than e’er adorn’d
Their genuine objects. Hence the fever’d heart
Pants with delirious hope for tinsel charms;
Hence oft obtrusive on the eye of scorn,
Untimely zeal her witless pride betrays;
And serious manhood, from the tow’ring aim
Of wisdom, stoops to emulate the boast
Of childish toil. Behold yon mystic form,
Bedeck’d with feathers, insects, weeds and shells!
Not with intenser brow the Samian sage
Bent his fix’d eye on heav’n’s eternal fires,
When first the order of that radiant scene
Swell’d his exulting thought, than this surveys
A muckworm’s entrails or a spider’s fang.
Next him a youth, with flow’rs and myrtles crown’d,
Attends that virgin form, and blushing kneels,
With fondest gesture and a suppliant’s tongue,
To win her coy regard: adieu, for him,
The dull ingagements of the bustling world!
Adieu the sick impertinence of praise!
And hope, and action! for with her alone,
By streams and shades, to steal the sighing hours,
Is all he asks, and all that fate can give!
Thee too, facetious Momion, wandring here,
Thee, dreaded censor! oft have I beheld
Bewilder’d unawares: alas! too long
Flush’d with thy comic triumphs and the spoils
Of sly derision! till on every side
Hurling thy random bolts, offended truth
Assign'd thee here thy station with the slaves
Of folly. Thy once formidable name
Shall grace her humble records, and be heard
In scoffs and mock’ry bandied from the lips
Of all the vengeful brotherhood around,
So oft the patient victims of thy scorn.

     But now, ye gay! to whom indulgent fate,
Of all the muse’s empire hath assign’d
The fields of folly, hither each advance
Your sickles; here the teeming soil affords
Its richest growth. A fav’rite brood appears;
In whom the daemon, with a mother’s joy,
Views all her charms reflected, all her cares
At full repay’d. Ye most illustrious band!
Who scorning reason‘s tame, pedantic rules,
And order’s vulgar bondage, never meant
For souls sublime as yours, with generous zeal
Pay vice the rev’rence virtue long usurp’d,
And yield deformity the fond applause
Which beauty wont to claim; forgive my song,
That for the blushing diffidence of youth,
It shuns the unequal province of your praise.

     Thus far triumphant in the pleasing guile
Of bland imagination, folly’s train
Have dar’d our search: but now a dastard-kind
Advance reluctant, and with fault’ring feet
Shrink from the gazer’s eye: infeebled hearts,
Whom fancy chills with visionary fears,
Or bends to servile tameness with conceits
Of shame, of evil, or of base defect,
Fantastic and delusive. Here the slave
Who droops abash’d when sullen pomp surveys
His humbler habit: here the trembling wretch
Unnerv’d and froze with terror’s icy bolts
Spent in weak wailings, drown’d in shameful tears,
At every dream of danger: here subdued
By frontless laughter and the hardy scorn
Of old, unfeeling vice, the abject soul
Who blushing half resigns the candid praise
Of temperance and honour; half disowns
A freeman’s hatred of tyrannic pride;
And hears with sickly smiles the venal mouth
With foulest licence mock the patriot’s name.

     Last of the motley bands on whom the pow‘r
Of gay derision bends her hostile aim,
Is that where shameful ignorance presides.
Beneath her sordid banners, lo! they march,
Like blind and lame. Whate’er their doubtful hands
Attempt, confusion strait appears behind,
And troubles all the work. Thro’ many a maze,
Perplex’d they struggle, changing every path,
O’erturning every purpose; then at last
Sit down dismay’d, and leave th’entangled scene
For scorn to sport with. Such then is th’abode
Of folly in the mind; and such the shapes
In which she governs her obsequious train.
Tho’ every scene of ridicule in things
To lead the tenour of my devious lay;
Thro’ every swift occasion, which the hand
Of laughter points at, when the mirthful sting
Distends her sallying nerves and choaks her tongue;
What were it but to count each crystal drop
Which morning’s dewy fingers on the blooms
Of May distill? Suffice it to have said,
Where’er the pow’r of ridicule displays
Her quaint-ey’d visage, some incongruous form,
Some stubborn dissonance of things combin’d,
Strikes on the quick observer: whether pomp,
Or praise, or beauty mix their partial claim
Where sordid fashions, where ignoble deeds,
Where foul deformity are wont to dwell,
Or whether these with violation loath’d,
Invade resplendent pomp’s imperious mien,
The charms of beauty, or the boast of praise.

     Ask we for what fair end, th’ almighty sire
In mortal bosoms wakes this gay contempt,
These grateful stings of laughter, from disgust
Educing pleasure? Wherefore, but to aid
The tardy steps of reason, and at once
By this prompt impulse urge us to depress
The giddy aims of folly? Tho’ the light
Of truth slow-dawning on th’ inquiring mind,
At length unfolds, thro’ many a subtile tie,
How these uncouth disorders end at last
In public evil; yet benignant heav’n
Conscious how dim the dawn of truth appears
To thousands; conscious what a scanty pause
From labours and from care, the wider lot
Of humble life affords for studious thought
To scan the maze of nature; therefore stampt
The glaring scenes with characters of scorn,
As broad, as obvious to the passing clown,
As to the letter’d sage’s curious eye.

     Such are the various aspects of the mind —
Some heav’nly genius, whose unclouded thoughts
Attain that secret harmony which blends
Th’ aethereal spirit with its mold of clay;
O! teach me to reveal the grateful charm
That searchless nature o’er the sense of man
Diffuses, to behold, in lifeless things,
The inexpressive semblance of himself,
Of thought and passion. Mark the sable woods
That shade sublime yon mountain’s nodding brow;
With what religious awe the solemn scene
Commands your steps! as if the reverend form
Of Minos or of Numa should forsake
Th’ Elysian seats, and down th’ imbow’ring glade
Move to your pausing eye! Behold th’ expanse
Of yon gay landscape, where the silver clouds
Flit o’er the heav’ns before the sprightly breeze:
Now their grey cincture skirts the doubtful sun;
Now streams of splendor, thro’ their opening veil
Effulgent, sweep from off the gilded lawn
Th’ aerial shadows; on the curling brook,
And on the shady margin’s quiv’ring leaves
With quickest lustre glancing: while you view
The prospect, say, within your chearful breast
Plays not the lively sense of winning mirth
With clouds and sunshine chequer’d, while the round
Of social converse, to th’ inspiring tongue
Of some gay nymph amid her subject-train,
Moves all obsequious? Whence is this effect,
This kindred pow’r of such discordant things?
Or flows their semblance from that mystic tone
To which the new-born mind’s harmonious pow’rs
At first were strung? Or rather from the links
Which artful custom twines around her frame?

     For when the diff’rent images of things
By chance combin’d, have struck th’ attentive soul
With deeper impulse, or connected long,
Have drawn her frequent eye; howe’er distinct
Th’ external scenes, yet oft th’ ideas gain
From that conjunction an eternal tie,
And sympathy unbroken. Let the mind
Recall one partner of the various league,
Immediate, lo! the firm confed’rates rise,
And each his former station strait resumes:
One movement governs the consenting throng,
And all at once with rosy pleasure shine,
Or all are sadden’d with the glooms of care.
’Twas thus, if ancient fame the truth unfold,
Two faithful needles, from th’ informing touch
Of the same parent-stone, together drew
Its mystic virtue, and at first conspir’d
With fatal impulse quiv’ring to the pole;
Then, tho’ disjoin’d by kingdoms, tho’ the main
Rowl’d its broad surge betwixt, and diff’rent stars
Beheld their wakeful motions, yet preserv’d
The former friendship, and remember’d still
Th’ alliance of their birth: whate’er the line
Which one possess’d, nor pause, nor quiet knew
The sure associate, ere with trembling speed
He found its path and fix’d unerring there.
Such is the secret union, when we feel
A song, a flow’r, a name at once restore
Those long-connected scenes where first they mov’d
Th’ attention; backward thro’ her mazy walks
Guiding the wanton fancy to her scope,
To temples, courts or fields; with all the band
Of painted forms, of passions and designs
Attendant: whence, if pleasing in itself,
The prospect from that sweet accession gains
Redoubled influence o’er the list’ning mind.

     By these mysterious ties the busy pow’r
Of mem’ry her ideal train preserves
Intire; or when they would elude her watch,
Reclaims their fleeting footsteps from the waste
Of dark oblivion; thus collecting all
The various forms of being to present,
Before the curious aim of mimic art,
Their largest choice: like spring’s unfolded blooms
Exhaling sweetness, that the skillful bee
May taste at will, from their selected spoils
To work her dulcet food. For not th’ expanse
Of living lakes in summer’s noontide calm,
Reflects the bord’ring shade and sun-bright heav’ns
With fairer semblance; not the sculptur’d gold
More faithful keeps the graver’s lively trace,
Than he whose birth the sister-pow’rs of art
Propitious view’d, and from his genial star
Shed influence to the seeds of fancy kind;
Than his attemper’d bosom must preserve
The seal of nature. There alone unchang’d,
Her form remains. The balmy walks of May
There breathe perennial sweets: the trembling chord
Resounds for ever in th’ abstracted ear,
Melodious; and the virgin’s radiant eye,
Superior to disease, to grief, and time,
Shines with unbating lustre. Thus at length
Indow’d with all that nature can bestow,
The child of fancy oft in silence bends
O’er these mix’d treasures of his pregnant breast,
With conscious pride. From them he oft resolves
To frame he knows not what excelling things;
And win he knows not what sublime reward
Of praise and wonder. By degrees the mind
Feels her young nerves dilate: the plastic pow’rs
Labour for action: blind emotions heave
His bosom; and with loveliest frenzy caught,
From earth to heav’n he rolls his daring eye,
From heav’n to earth. Anon ten thousand shapes,
Like spectres trooping to the wisard’s call,
Fleet swift before him. From the womb of earth
From ocean’s bed they come: th’ eternal heav’ns
Disclose their splendors, and the dark abyss
Pours out her births unknown. With fixed gaze
He marks the rising phantoms. Now compares
Their diff’rent forms; now blends them, now divides;
Inlarges and extenuates by turns;
Opposes, ranges in fantastic bands,
And infinitely varies. Hither now,
Now thither fluctuates his inconstant aim,
With endless choice perplex’d. At length his plan
Begins to open. Lucid order dawns;
And as from Chaos old the jarring seeds
Of nature at the voice divine repair’d
Each to its place, till rosy earth unveil’d
Her fragrant bosom, and the joyful sun
Sprung up the blue serene; by swift degrees
Thus disentangled, his entire design
Emerges. Colours mingle, features join,
And lines converge: the fainter parts retire;
The fairer eminent in light advance;
And every image on its neighbour smiles.
A while he stands, and with a father’s joy
Contemplates. Then with Promethéan art,
Into its proper vehicle he breathes
The fair conception; which imbodied thus,
And permanent, becomes to eyes or ears
An object ascertain’d: while thus inform’d,
The various organs of his mimic skill,
The consonance of sounds, the featur’d rock,
The shadowy picture and impassion’d verse,
Beyond their proper pow’rs attract the soul
By that expressive semblance, while in sight
Of nature’s great original we scan
The lively child of art; while line by line,
And feature after feature we refer
To that sublime exemplar whence it stole
Those animating charms. Thus beauty’s palm
Betwixt ’em wav’ring hangs: applauding love
Doubts where to chuse; and mortal man aspires
To tempt creative praise. As when a cloud
Of gath’ring hail with limpid crusts of ice
Inclos’d and obvious to the beaming sun,
Collects his large effulgence; strait the heav’ns
With equal flames present on either hand
The radiant visage: Persia stands at gaze,
Appall’d; and on the brink of Ganges waits
The snowy-vested seer, in Mithra’s name,
To which the fragrance of the south shall burn,
To which his warbled orisons ascend.

     Such various bliss the well-tun’d heart injoys,
Favour’d of heav’n! While plung’d in sordid cares,
Th’ unfeeling vulgar mocks the boon divine:
And harsh austerity, from whose rebuke
Young love and smiling wonder shrink away,
Abash’d and chill of heart, with sager frowns
Condemns the fair inchantment. On, my strain,
Perhaps ev’n now some cold, fastidious judge
Casts a disdainful eye; and calls my toil,
And calls the love and beauty which I sing,
The dream of folly. Thou grave censor! say,
Is beauty then a dream, because the glooms
Of dullness hang too heavy on thy sense
To let her shine upon thee? So the man
Whose eye ne’er open’d on the light of heav’n,
Might smile with scorn while raptur’d vision tells
Of the gay, colour’d radiance flushing bright
O’er all creation. From the wise be far
Such gross, unhallow’d pride; nor needs my song
Descend so low; but rather now unfold,
If human thought could reach, or words unfold,
By what mysterious fabric of the mind,
The deep-felt joys and harmony of sound
Result from airy motion; and from shape
The lovely phantoms of sublime and fair.
By what fine ties hath GOD connected things
When present in the mind; which in themselves
Have no connection? Sure the rising sun,
O’er the caerulean convex of the sea,
With equal brightness and with equal warmth
Might rowl his fiery orb; nor yet the soul
Thus feel her frame expanded, and her pow’rs
Exulting in the splendor she beholds;
Like a young conqu’ror moving thro’ the pomp
Of some triumphal day. When join’d at eve,
Soft-murm’ring streams and gales of gentlest breath
Melodious Philomela’s wakeful strain
Attemper, could not man’s discerning ear
Thro’ all its tones the symphony pursue;
Nor yet this breath divine of nameless joy
Steal thro’ his veins and fan th’awaken’d heart,
Mild as the breeze, yet rapt’rous as the song?

     But were not nature still indow’d at large
With all which life requires, tho’ unadorn’d
With such inchantment? Wherefore then her form
So exquisitely fair? her breath perfum’d
With such aethereal sweetness? Whence her voice
Inform’d at will to raise or to depress
Th’ impassion’d soul? and whence the robes of light
Which thus invest her with more lovely pomp
Than fancy can describe? Whence but from thee,
O source divine of ever-flowing love,
And thy unmeasur‘d goodness? Not content
With every food of life to nourish man,
By kind illusions of the wond’ring sense
Thou mak’st all nature beauty to his eye,
Or music to his ear: well-pleas’d he scans
The goodly prospect; and with inward smiles
Treads the gay verdure of the painted plain;
Beholds the azure canopy of heav’n,
And living lamps that over-arch his head
With more than regal splendor; bends his ears
To the full choir of water, air, and earth;
Nor heeds the pleasing error of his thought,
Nor doubts the painted green or azure arch,
Nor questions more the music’s mingling sounds
Than space, or motion, or eternal time:
So sweet he feels their influence to attract
The fixed soul; to brighten the dull glooms
Of care, and make the destin’d road of life
Delightful to his feet. So fables tell,
Th‘ advent’rous heroe, bound on hard exploits,
Beholds with glad surprize, by secret spells
Of some kind sage, the patron of his toils,
A visionary paradise disclos’d
Amid the dubious wild: with streams, and shades,
And airy songs, th’ enchanted landscape smiles,
Chears his long labours and renews his frame.

     What then is taste, but these internal pow’rs
Active, and strong, and feelingly alive
To each fine impulse? a discerning sense
Of decent and sublime, with quick disgust
From things deform’d, or disarrang’d, or gross
In species? This, nor gems, nor stores of gold,
Nor purple state, nor culture can bestow;
But GOD alone, when first his active hand
Imprints the secret byass of the soul.
He, mighty parent! wise and just in all,
Free as the vital breeze or light of heav’n,
Reveals the charms of nature. Ask the swain
Who journeys homeward from a summer day’s
Long labour, why, forgetful of his toils
And due repose, he loiters to behold
The sunshine gleaming as thro’ amber clouds,
O’er all the western sky; full soon, I ween,
His rude expression and untutor’d airs,
Beyond the pow’r of language, will unfold
The form of beauty smiling at his heart,
How lovely! how commanding! But tho’ heav’n
In every breast hath sown these early seeds
Of love and admiration, yet in vain,
Without fair culture’s kind parental aid,
Without inlivening suns, and genial show’rs,
And shelter from the blast, in vain we hope
The tender plant should rear its blooming head,
Or yield the harvest promis’d in its spring.
Nor yet will every soil with equal stores
Repay the tiller’s labour; or attend
His will, obsequious, whether to produce
The olive or the laurel. Diff’rent minds
Incline to different objects: one pursues
The vast alone, the wonderful, the wild;
Another sighs for harmony, and grace,
And gentlest beauty. Hence when lightning fires
The arch of heav’n, and thunders rock the ground;
When furious whirlwinds rend the howling air,
And ocean, groaning from the lowest bed,
Heaves his tempestuous billows to the sky;
Amid the mighty uproar, while below
The nations tremble, Shakespear looks abroad
From some high cliff, superior, and enjoys
The elemental war. But Waller longs,
All on the margin of some flow’ry stream
To spread his careless limbs amid the cool
Of plantane shades, and to the list’ning deer,
The tale of slighted vows and love’s disdain
Resound soft-warbling all the live-long day:
Consenting Zephyr sighs; the weeping rill
Joins in his plaint, melodious; mute the groves;
And hill and dale with all their echoes mourn.
Such and so various are the tastes of men.

     Oh! blest of heav’n, whom not the languid songs
Of luxury, the Siren! not the bribes
Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils
Of pageant honour can seduce to leave
Those ever-blooming sweets, which from the store
Of nature fair imagination culls
To charm th’ inliven’d soul! What tho’ not all
Of mortal offspring can attain the heights
Of envied life; tho’ only few possess
Patrician treasures or imperial state;
Yet nature’s care, to all her children just,
With richer treasures and an ampler state
Indows at large whatever happy man
Will deign to use them. His the city’s pomp,
The rural honours his. Whate’er adorns
The princely dome, the column and the arch,
The breathing marbles and the sculptur’d gold,
Beyond the proud possessor’s narrow claim,
His tuneful breast injoys. For him, the spring
Distills her dews, and from the silken gem
Its lucid leaves unfolds: for him, the hand
Of autumn tinges every fertile branch
With blooming gold and blushes like the morn.
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings;
And still new beauties meet his lonely walk;
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze
Flies o’er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes
The setting sun’s effulgence, not a strain
From all the tenants of the warbling shade
Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake
Fresh pleasure, unreprov’d. Nor thence partakes
Fresh pleasure only: for th’ attentive mind,
By this harmonious action on her pow’rs,
Becomes herself harmonious: wont so long
In outward things to meditate the charm
Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home
To find a kindred order, to exert
Within herself this elegance of love,
This fair-inspir’d delight: her temper’d pow’rs
Refine at length, and every passion wears
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien.
But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze
On nature’s form where negligent of all
These lesser graces, she assumes the port
Of that eternal majesty that weigh’d
The world’s foundations, if to these the mind
Exalt her daring eye; then mightier far
Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms
Of servile custom cramp her generous pow’rs?
Would sordid policies, the barb’rous growth
Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down
To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear?
Lo! she appeals to nature, to the winds
And rowling waves, the sun’s unwearied course,
The elements and seasons: all declare
For what th’ eternal maker has ordain’d
The pow’rs of man: we feel within ourselves
His energy divine: he tells the heart,
He meant, he made us to behold and love
What he beholds and loves, the general orb
Of life and being; to be great like him,
Beneficent and active. Thus the men
Whom nature’s works can charm, with GOD himself
Hold converse; grow familiar, day by day,
With his conceptions; act upon his plan;
And form to his, the relish of their souls.