Book I: 1757

With what enchantment Nature's goodly sceneAttracts the sense of mortals; how the mindFor its own eye doth objects nobler stillPrepare; how men by various lessons learnTo judge of Beauty's praise; what raptures fillThe breast with fancy's native arts endow'd,And what true culture guides it to renown,My verse unfolds. Ye gods, or godlike powers,Ye guardians of the sacred task, attendPropitious. Hand in hand around your bardMove in majestic measures, leading onHis doubtful step through many a solemn path,Conscious of secrets which to human sightYe only can reveal. Be great in him:And let your favour make him wise to speakOf all your wondrous empire; with a voiceSo temper'd to his theme, that those who hearMay yield perpetual homage to yourselves.Thou chief, O daughter of eternal Love,Whate'er thy name; or Muse, or Grace, adoredBy Grecian prophets; to the sons of HeavenKnown, while with deep amazement thou dost thereThe perfect counsels read, the ideas old,Of thine omniscient Father; known on earthBy the still horror and the blissful tearWith which thou seizest on the soul of man;Thou chief, Poetic Spirit, from the banksOf Avon, whence thy holy fingers cullFresh flowers and dews to sprinkle on the turfWhere Shakspeare lies, be present. And with theeLet Fiction come, on her aerial wingsWafting ten thousand colours, which in sport,By the light glances of her magic eye,She blends and shifts at will through countless forms,Her wild creation. Goddess of the lyre,Whose awful tones control the moving sphere,Wilt thou, eternal Harmony, descend,And join this happy train? for with thee comesThe guide, the guardian of their mystic rites,Wise Order: and, where Order deigns to come,Her sister, Liberty, will not be far.Be present all ye Genii, who conductOf youthful bards the lonely wandering stepNew to your springs and shades; who touch their earWith finer sounds, and heighten to their eyeThe pomp of nature, and before them placeThe fairest, loftiest countenance of things.

Nor thou, my Dyson, to the lay refuseThy wonted partial audience. What though first,In years unseason'd, haply ere the sportsOf childhood yet were o'er, the adventurous layWith many splendid prospects, many charms,Allured my heart, nor conscious whence they sprung,Nor heedful of their end? yet serious TruthHer empire o'er the calm, sequester'd themeAsserted soon; while Falsehood's evil brood,Vice and deceitful Pleasure, she at onceExcluded, and my fancy's careless toilDrew to the better cause. Maturer aidThy friendship added, in the paths of life,The busy paths, my unaccustom'd feetPreserving: nor to Truth's recess divine,Through this wide argument's unbeaten space,Withholding surer guidance; while by turnsWe traced the sages old, or while the queenOf sciences (whom manners and the mindAcknowledge) to my true companion's voiceNot unattentive, o'er the wintry lampInclined her sceptre, favouring. Now the fatesHave other tasks imposed;--to thee, my friend,The ministry of freedom and the faithOf popular decrees, in early youth,Not vainly they committed; me they sentTo wait on pain, and silent arts to urge,Inglorious; not ignoble, if my cares,To such as languish on a grievous bed,Ease and the sweet forgetfulness of illConciliate; nor delightless, if the Muse,Her shades to visit and to taste her springs,If some distinguish'd hours the bounteous MuseImpart, and grant (what she, and she alone,Can grant to mortals) that my hand those wreathsOf fame and honest favour, which the bless'dWear in Elysium, and which never feltThe breath of envy or malignant tongues,That these my hand for thee and for myselfMay gather. Meanwhile, O my faithful friend,O early chosen, ever found the same,And trusted and beloved, once more the verseLong destined, always obvious to thine ear,Attend, indulgent: so in latest years,When time thy head with honours shall have clothedSacred to even virtue, may thy mind,Amid the calm review of seasons past,Fair offices of friendship, or kind peace,Or public zeal, may then thy mind well pleasedRecall these happy studies of our prime.From Heaven my strains begin: from Heaven descendsThe flame of genius to the chosen breast,And beauty with poetic wonder join'd,And inspiration. Ere the rising sunShone o'er the deep, or 'mid the vault of nightThe moon her silver lamp suspended; ereThe vales with springs were water'd, or with grovesOf oak or pine the ancient hills were crown'd;Then the Great Spirit, whom his works adore,Within his own deep essence view'd the forms,The forms eternal of created things:The radiant sun; the moon's nocturnal lamp;The mountains and the streams; the ample storesOf earth, of heaven, of nature. From the first,On that full scene his love divine he fix'd,His admiration: till, in time complete,What he admired and loved his vital powerUnfolded into being. Hence the breathOf life informing each organic frame:Hence the green earth, and wild-resounding waves:Hence light and shade, alternate; warmth and cold;And bright autumnal skies, and vernal showers,And all the fair variety of things.But not alike to every mortal eyeIs this great scene unveil'd. For while the claimsOf social life to different labours urgeThe active powers of man, with wisest careHath Nature on the multitude of mindsImpress'd a various bias, and to eachDecreed its province in the common toil.To some she taught the fabric of the sphere,The changeful moon, the circuit of the stars,The golden zones of heaven; to some she gaveTo search the story of eternal thought;Of space, and time; of fate's unbroken chain,And will's quick movement; others by the handShe led o'er vales and mountains, to exploreWhat healing virtue dwells in every veinOf herbs or trees. But some to nobler hopesWere destined; some within a finer mouldShe wrought, and temper'd with a purer flame.To these the Sire Omnipotent unfolds,In fuller aspects and with fairer lights,This picture of the world. Through every partThey trace the lofty sketches of his hand;In earth, or air, the meadow's flowery store,The moon's mild radiance, or the virgin's mienDress'd in attractive smiles, they see portray'd(As far as mortal eyes the portrait scan)Those lineaments of beauty which delightThe Mind Supreme. They also feel their force,Enamour'd; they partake the eternal joy.

For as old Memnon's image, long renown'dThrough fabling Egypt, at the genial touchOf morning, from its inmost frame sent forthSpontaneous music, so doth Nature's hand,To certain attributes which matter claims,Adapt the finer organs of the mind;So the glad impulse of those kindred powers(Of form, of colour's cheerful pomp, of soundMelodious, or of motion aptly sped),Detains the enliven'd sense; till soon the soulFeels the deep concord, and assents through allHer functions. Then the charm by fate preparedDiffuseth its enchantment Fancy dreams,Rapt into high discourse with prophets old,And wandering through Elysium, Fancy dreamsOf sacred fountains, of o'ershadowing groves,Whose walks with godlike harmony resound:Fountains, which Homer visits; happy groves,Where Milton dwells; the intellectual power,On the mind's throne, suspends his graver cares,And smiles; the passions, to divine reposePersuaded yield, and love and joy aloneAre waking: love and joy, such as awaitAn angel's meditation. Oh! attend,Whoe'er thou art whom these delights can touch;Whom Nature's aspect, Nature's simple garbCan thus command; oh! listen to my song;And I will guide thee to her blissful walks,And teach thy solitude her voice to hear,And point her gracious features to thy view.

Know then, whate'er of the world's ancient store,Whate'er of mimic Art's reflected scenes,With love and admiration thus inspireAttentive Fancy, her delighted sonsIn two illustrious orders comprehend,Self-taught: from him whose rustic toil the larkCheers warbling, to the bard whose daring thoughtsRange the full orb of being, still the form,Which Fancy worships, or sublime or fair,Her votaries proclaim. I see them dawn:I see the radiant visions where they rise,More lovely than when Lucifer displaysHis glittering forehead through the gates of morn,To lead the train of Phoebus and the Spring.

Say, why was man so eminently raisedAmid the vast creation; why empower'dThrough life and death to dart his watchful eye,With thoughts beyond the limit of his frame;But that the Omnipotent might send him forth,In sight of angels and immortal minds,As on an ample theatre to joinIn contest with his equals, who shall bestThe task achieve, the course of noble toils,By wisdom and by mercy preordain'd?Might send him forth the sovereign good to learn;To chase each meaner purpose from his breast;And through the mists of passion and of sense,And through the pelting storms of chance and pain,To hold straight on, with constant heart and eyeStill fix'd upon his everlasting palm,The approving smile of Heaven? Else wherefore burnsIn mortal bosoms this unquenched hope,That seeks from day to day sublimer ends,Happy, though restless? Why departs the soulWide from the track and journey of her times,To grasp the good she knows not? In the fieldOf things which may be, in the spacious fieldOf science, potent arts, or dreadful arms,To raise up scenes in which her own desiresContented may repose; when things, which are,Pall on her temper, like a twice-told tale:Her temper, still demanding to be free;Spurning the rude control of wilful might;Proud of her dangers braved, her griefs endured,Her strength severely proved? To these high aims,Which reason and affection prompt in man,Not adverse nor unapt hath Nature framedHis bold imagination. For, amidThe various forms which this full world presentsLike rivals to his choice, what human breastE'er doubts, before the transient and minute,To prize the vast, the stable, the sublime?Who, that from heights aerial sends his eyeAround a wild horizon, and surveysIndus or Ganges rolling his broad waveThrough mountains, plains, through spacious cities old,And regions dark with woods, will turn awayTo mark the path of some penurious rillWhich murmureth at his feet? Where does the soulConsent her soaring fancy to restrain,Which bears her up, as on an eagle's wings,Destined for highest heaven; or which of fate'sTremendous barriers shall confine her flightTo any humbler quarry? The rich earthCannot detain her; nor the ambient airWith all its changes. For a while with joyShe hovers o'er the sun, and views the smallAttendant orbs, beneath his sacred beam,Emerging from the deep, like cluster'd islesWhose rocky shores to the glad sailor's eyeReflect the gleams of morning; for a whileWith pride she sees his firm, paternal swayBend the reluctant planets to move eachRound its perpetual year. But soon she quitsThat prospect; meditating loftier views,She darts adventurous up the long careerOf comets; through the constellations holdsHer course, and now looks back on all the starsWhose blended flames as with a milky streamPart the blue region. Empyrean tracts,Where happy souls beyond this concave heavenAbide, she then explores, whence purer lightFor countless ages travels through the abyss,Nor hath in sight of mortals yet arrived.Upon the wide creation's utmost shoreAt length she stands, and the dread space beyondContemplates, half-recoiling: nathless, downThe gloomy void, astonish'd, yet unquell'd,She plungeth; down the unfathomable gulfWhere God alone hath being. There her hopesRest at the fated goal. For, from the birthOf human kind, the Sovereign Maker saidThat not in humble, nor in brief delight,Not in the fleeting echoes of renown,Power's purple robes, nor Pleasure's flowery lap,The soul should find contentment; but, from theseTurning disdainful to an equal good,Through Nature's opening walks enlarge her aim,Till every bound at length should disappear,And infinite perfection fill the scene.

But lo, where Beauty, dress'd in gentler pomp,With comely steps advancing, claims the verseHer charms inspire. O Beauty, source of praise,Of honour, even to mute and lifeless things;O thou that kindlest in each human heartLove, and the wish of poets, when their tongueWould teach to other bosoms what so charmsTheir own; O child of Nature and the soul,In happiest hour brought forth; the doubtful garbOf words, of earthly language, all too mean,Too lowly I account, in which to clotheThy form divine; for thee the mind aloneBeholds, nor half thy brightness can revealThrough those dim organs, whose corporeal touchO'ershadoweth thy pure essence. Yet, my Muse,If Fortune call thee to the task, wait thouThy favourable seasons; then, while fearAnd doubt are absent, through wide nature's boundsExpatiate with glad step, and choose at willWhate'er bright spoils the florid earth contains,Whate'er the waters, or the liquid air,To manifest unblemish'd Beauty's praise,And o'er the breasts of mortals to extendHer gracious empire. Wilt thou to the islesAtlantic, to the rich Hesperian clime,Fly in the train of Autumn, and look on,And learn from him; while, as he roves around,Where'er his fingers touch the fruitful grove,The branches bloom with gold; where'er his footImprints the soil, the ripening clusters swell,Turning aside their foliage, and come forthIn purple lights, till every hillock glowsAs with the blushes of an evening sky?Or wilt thou that Thessalian landscape trace,Where slow Peneus his clear glassy tideDraws smooth along, between the winding cliffsOf Ossa and the pathless woods unshornThat wave o'er huge Olympus? Down the stream,Look how the mountains with their double rangeEmbrace the vale of Tempe: from each sideAscending steep to heaven, a rocky moundCover'd with ivy and the laurel boughsThat crown'd young Phoebus for the Python slain.Fair Tempe! on whose primrose banks the mornAwoke most fragrant, and the noon reposedIn pomp of lights and shadows most sublime:Whose lawns, whose glades, ere human footsteps yetHad traced an entrance, were the hallow'd hauntOf sylvan powers immortal: where they sateOft in the golden age, the Nymphs and Fauns,Beneath some arbour branching o'er the flood,And leaning round hung on the instructive lipsOf hoary Pan, or o'er some open daleDanced in light measures to his sevenfold pipe,While Zephyr's wanton hand along their pathFlung showers of painted blossoms, fertile dews,And one perpetual spring. But if our taskMore lofty rites demand, with all good vowsThen let us hasten to the rural hauntWhere young Melissa dwells. Nor thou refuseThe voice which calls thee from thy loved retreat,But hither, gentle maid, thy footsteps turn:Here, to thy own unquestionable theme,O fair, O graceful, bend thy polish'd brow,Assenting; and the gladness of thy eyesImpart to me, like morning's wished lightSeen through the vernal air. By yonder stream,Where beech and elm along the bordering meadSend forth wild melody from every bough,Together let us wander; where the hillsCover'd with fleeces to the lowing valeReply; where tidings of content and peaceEach echo brings. Lo, how the western sunO'er fields and floods, o'er every living soul,Diffuseth glad repose! There,--while I speakOf Beauty's honours, thou, Melissa, thouShalt hearken, not unconscious, while I tellHow first from Heaven she came: how, after allThe works of life, the elemental scenes,The hours, the seasons, she had oft explored,At length her favourite mansion and her throneShe fix'd in woman's form; what pleasing tiesTo virtue bind her; what effectual aidThey lend each other's power; and how divineTheir union, should some unambitious maid,To all the enchantment of the Idalian queen,Add sanctity and wisdom; while my tongueProlongs the tale, Melissa, thou may'st feignTo wonder whence my rapture is inspired;But soon the smile which dawns upon thy lipShall tell it, and the tenderer bloom o'er allThat soft cheek springing to the marble neck,Which bends aside in vain, revealing moreWhat it would thus keep silent, and in vainThe sense of praise dissembling. Then my songGreat Nature's winning arts, which thus informWith joy and love the rugged breast of man,Should sound in numbers worthy such a theme:While all whose souls have ever felt the forceOf those enchanting passions, to my lyreShould throng attentive, and receive once moreTheir influence, unobscured by any cloudOf vulgar care, and purer than the handOf Fortune can bestow; nor, to confirmTheir sway, should awful Contemplation scornTo join his dictates to the genuine strainOf Pleasure's tongue; nor yet should Pleasure's earBe much averse. Ye chiefly, gentle bandOf youths and virgins, who through many a wishAnd many a fond pursuit, as in some sceneOf magic bright and fleeting, are alluredBy various Beauty, if the pleasing toilCan yield a moment's respite, hither turnYour favourable ear, and trust my words.I do not mean on bless'd Religion's seat,Presenting Superstition's gloomy form,To dash your soothing hopes; I do not meanTo bid the jealous thunderer fire the heavens,Or shapes infernal rend the groaning earth,And scare you from your joys. My cheerful songWith happier omens calls you to the field,Pleased with your generous ardour in the chase,And warm like you. Then tell me (for ye know),Doth Beauty ever deign to dwell where useAnd aptitude are strangers? is her praiseConfess'd in aught whose most peculiar endsAre lame and fruitless? or did Nature meanThis pleasing call the herald of a lie,To hide the shame of discord and disease,And win each fond admirer into snares,Foil'd, baffled? No; with better providenceThe general mother, conscious how infirmHer offspring tread the paths of good and ill,Thus, to the choice of credulous desire,Doth objects the completest of their tribeDistinguish and commend. Yon flowery bankClothed in the soft magnificence of Spring,Will not the flocks approve it? will they askThe reedy fen for pasture? That clear rillWhich trickleth murmuring from the mossy rock,Yields it less wholesome beverage to the wornAnd thirsty traveller, than the standing poolWith muddy weeds o'ergrown? Yon ragged vineWhose lean and sullen clusters mourn the rageOf Eurus, will the wine-press or the bowlReport of her, as of the swelling grapeWhich glitters through the tendrils, like a gemWhen first it meets the sun. Or what are allThe various charms to life and sense adjoin'd?Are they not pledges of a state entire,Where native order reigns, with every partIn health, and every function well perform'd?

Thus, then, at first was Beauty sent from Heaven,The lovely ministress of Truth and GoodIn this dark world: for Truth and Good are one;And Beauty dwells in them, and they in her,With like participation. Wherefore then,O sons of earth, would ye dissolve the tie?Oh! wherefore with a rash and greedy aimSeek ye to rove through every flattering sceneWhich Beauty seems to deck, nor once inquireWhere is the suffrage of eternal Truth,Or where the seal of undeceitful Good,To save your search from folly? Wanting these,Lo, Beauty withers in your void embrace;And with the glittering of an idiot's toyDid Fancy mock your vows. Nor yet let hope,That kindliest inmate of the youthful breast,Be hence appall'd, be turn'd to coward slothSitting in silence, with dejected eyesIncurious and with folded hands; far lessLet scorn of wild fantastic folly's dreams,Or hatred of the bigot's savage pridePersuade you e'er that Beauty, or the loveWhich waits on Beauty, may not brook to hearThe sacred lore of undeceitful GoodAnd Truth eternal. From the vulgar crowdThough Superstition, tyranness abhorr'd,The reverence due to this majestic pairWith threats and execration still demands;Though the tame wretch, who asks of her the wayTo their celestial dwelling, she constrainsTo quench or set at nought the lamp of GodWithin his frame; through many a cheerless wildThough forth she leads him credulous and darkAnd awed with dubious notion; though at lengthHaply she plunge him into cloister'd cellsAnd mansions unrelenting as the grave,But void of quiet, there to watch the hoursOf midnight; there, amid the screaming owl'sDire song, with spectres or with guilty shadesTo talk of pangs and everlasting woe;Yet be not ye dismay'd. A gentler starPresides o'er your adventure. From the bowerWhere Wisdom sat with her Athenian sons,Could but my happy hand entwine a wreathOf Plato's olive with the Mantuan bay,Then (for what need of cruel fear to you,To you whom godlike love can well command?),Then should my powerful voice at once dispelThose monkish horrors; should in words divineRelate how favour'd minds like you inspired,And taught their inspiration to conductBy ruling Heaven's decree, through various walksAnd prospects various, but delightful all,Move onward; while now myrtle groves appear,Now arms and radiant trophies, now the rodsOf empire with the curule throne, or nowThe domes of contemplation and the Muse.

Led by that hope sublime, whose cloudless eyeThrough the fair toils and ornaments of earthDiscerns the nobler life reserved for heaven,Favour'd alike they worship round the shrineWhere Truth conspicuous with her sister-twins,The undivided partners of her sway,With Good and Beauty reigns. Oh! let not usBy Pleasure's lying blandishments detain'd,Or crouching to the frowns of bigot rage,Oh! let not us one moment pause to joinThat chosen band. And if the gracious Power,Who first awaken'd my untutor'd song,Will to my invocation grant anewThe tuneful spirit, then through all our pathsNe'er shall the sound of this devoted lyreBe wanting; whether on the rosy meadWhen Summer smiles, to warn the melting heartOf Luxury's allurement; whether firmAgainst the torrent and the stubborn hillTo urge free Virtue's steps, and to her sideSummon that strong divinity of soulWhich conquers Chance and Fate: or on the height,The goal assign'd her, haply to proclaimHer triumph; on her brow to place the crownOf uncorrupted praise; through future worldsTo follow her interminated way,And bless Heaven's image in the heart of man.

Such is the worth of Beauty; such her power,So blameless, so revered. It now remains,In just gradation through the various ranksOf being, to contemplate how her giftsRise in due measure, watchful to attendThe steps of rising Nature. Last and least,In colours mingling with a random blaze,Doth Beauty dwell. Then higher in the formsOf simplest, easiest measure; in the boundsOf circle, cube, or sphere. The third ascentTo symmetry adds colour: thus the pearlShines in the concave of its purple bed,And painted shells along some winding shoreCatch with indented folds the glancing sun.Next, as we rise, appear the blooming tribesWhich clothe the fragrant earth; which draw from herTheir own nutrition; which are born and die,Yet, in their seed, immortal; such the flowersWith which young Maia pays the village maidsThat hail her natal morn; and such the grovesWhich blithe Pomona rears on Vaga's bank,To feed the bowl of Ariconian swainsWho quaff beneath her branches. Nobler stillIs Beauty's name where, to the full consentOf members and of features, to the prideOf colour, and the vital change of growth,Life's holy flame with piercing sense is given,While active motion speaks the temper'd soul:So moves the bird of Juno: so the steedWith rival swiftness beats the dusty plain,And faithful dogs with eager airs of joySalute their fellows. What sublimer pompAdorns the seat where Virtue dwells on earth,And Truth's eternal day-light shines around,What palm belongs to man's imperial front,And woman powerful with becoming smiles,Chief of terrestrial natures, need we nowStrive to inculcate? Thus hath Beauty thereHer most conspicuous praise to matter lent,Where most conspicuous through that shadowy veilBreaks forth the bright expression of a mind,By steps directing our enraptured searchTo Him, the first of minds; the chief; the sole;From whom, through this wide, complicated world,Did all her various lineaments begin;To whom alone, consenting and entire,At once their mutual influence all display.He, God most high (bear witness, Earth and Heaven),The living fountains in himself containsOf beauteous and sublime; with him enthronedEre days or years trod their ethereal way,In his supreme intelligence enthroned,The queen of love holds her unclouded state,Urania. Thee, O Father! this extentOf matter; thee the sluggish earth and tractOf seas, the heavens and heavenly splendours feelPervading, quickening, moving. From the depthOf thy great essence, forth didst thou conductEternal Form: and there, where Chaos reign'd,Gav'st her dominion to erect her seat,And sanctify the mansion. All her worksWell pleased thou didst behold: the gloomy firesOf storm or earthquake, and the purest lightOf summer; soft Campania's new-born rose,And the slow weed which pines on Russian hillsComely alike to thy full vision stand:To thy surrounding vision, which unitesAll essences and powers of the great worldIn one sole order, fair alike they stand,As features well consenting, and alikeRequired by Nature ere she could attainHer just resemblance to the perfect shapeOf universal Beauty, which with theeDwelt from the first. Thou also, ancient Mind,Whom love and free beneficence awaitIn all thy doings; to inferior minds,Thy offspring, and to man, thy youngest son,Refusing no convenient gift nor good;Their eyes didst open, in this earth, yon heaven,Those starry worlds, the countenance divineOf Beauty to behold. But not to themDidst thou her awful magnitude revealSuch as before thine own unbounded sightShe stands (for never shall created soulConceive that object), nor, to all their kinds,The same in shape or features didst thou frameHer image. Measuring well their different spheresOf sense and action, thy paternal handHath for each race prepared a different testOf Beauty, own'd and reverenced as their guideMost apt, most faithful. Thence inform'd, they scanThe objects that surround them; and select,Since the great whole disclaims their scanty view,Each for himself selects peculiar partsOf Nature; what the standard fix'd by HeavenWithin his breast approves, acquiring thusA partial Beauty, which becomes his lot;A Beauty which his eye may comprehend,His hand may copy, leaving, O Supreme,O thou whom none hath utter'd, leaving allTo thee that infinite, consummate form,Which the great powers, the gods around thy throneAnd nearest to thy counsels, know with theeFor ever to have been; but who she is,Or what her likeness, know not. Man surveysA narrower scene, where, by the mix'd effectOf things corporeal on his passive mind,He judgeth what is fair. Corporeal thingsThe mind of man impel with various powers,And various features to his eye disclose.The powers which move his sense with instant joy,The features which attract his heart to love,He marks, combines, reposits. Other powersAnd features of the self-same thing (unlessThe beauteous form, the creature of his mind,Request their close alliance) he o'erlooksForgotten; or with self-beguiling zeal,Whene'er his passions mingle in the work,Half alters, half disowns. The tribes of menThus from their different functions and the shapesFamiliar to their eye, with art obtain,Unconscious of their purpose, yet with artObtain the Beauty fitting man to love;Whose proud desires from Nature's homely toilOft turn away, fastidious, asking stillHis mind's high aid, to purify the formFrom matter's gross communion; to secureFor ever, from the meddling hand of ChangeOr rude Decay, her features; and to addWhatever ornaments may suit her mien,Where'er he finds them scatter'd through the pathsOf Nature or of Fortune. Then he seatsThe accomplish'd image deep within his breast,Reviews it, and accounts it good and fair.

Thus the one Beauty of the world entire,The universal Venus, far beyondThe keenest effort of created eyes,And their most wide horizon, dwells enthronedIn ancient silence. At her footstool standsAn altar burning with eternal fireUnsullied, unconsumed. Here every hour,Here every moment, in their turns arriveHer offspring; an innumerable bandOf sisters, comely all! but differing farIn age, in stature, and expressive mien,More than bright Helen from her new-born babe.To this maternal shrine in turns they come,Each with her sacred lamp; that from the sourceOf living flame, which here immortal flows,Their portions of its lustre they may drawFor days, or months, or years; for ages, some;As their great parent's discipline requires.Then to their several mansions they depart,In stars, in planets, through the unknown shoresOf yon ethereal ocean. Who can tell,Even on the surface of this rolling earth,How many make abode? The fields, the groves,The winding rivers and the azure main,Are render'd solemn by their frequent feet,Their rites sublime. There each her destined homeInforms with that pure radiance from the skiesBrought down, and shines throughout her little sphere,Exulting. Straight, as travellers by nightTurn toward a distant flame, so some fit eye,Among the various tenants of the scene,Discerns the heaven-born phantom seated there,And owns her charms. Hence the wide universe,Through all the seasons of revolving worlds,Bears witness with its people, gods and men,To Beauty's blissful power, and with the voiceOf grateful admiration still resounds:That voice, to which is Beauty's frame divineAs is the cunning of the master's handTo the sweet accent of the well-tuned lyre.

Genius of ancient Greece, whose faithful stepsHave led us to these awful solitudesOf Nature and of Science; nurse reveredOf generous counsels and heroic deeds;Oh! let some portion of thy matchless praiseDwell in my breast, and teach me to adornThis unattempted theme. Nor be my thoughtsPresumptuous counted, if, amid the calmWhich Hesper sheds along the vernal heaven,If I, from vulgar Superstition's walk,Impatient steal, and from the unseemly ritesOf splendid Adulation, to attendWith hymns thy presence in the sylvan shade,By their malignant footsteps unprofaned.Come, O renowned power; thy glowing mienSuch, and so elevated all thy form,As when the great barbaric lord, againAnd yet again diminish'd, hid his faceAmong the herd of satraps and of kings;And, at the lightning of thy lifted spear,Crouch'd like a slave. Bring all thy martial spoils,Thy palms, thy laurels, thy triumphal songs,Thy smiling band of Arts, thy godlike siresOf civil wisdom, thy unconquer'd youth,After some glorious day rejoicing roundTheir new-erected trophy. Guide my feetThrough fair Lyceum's walk, the olive shadesOf Academus, and the sacred valeHaunted by steps divine, where once, beneathThat ever living platane's ample boughs,Ilissus, by Socratic sounds detain'd,On his neglected urn attentive lay;While Boreas, lingering on the neighbouring steepWith beauteous Orithyia, his love taleIn silent awe suspended. There let meWith blameless hand, from thy unenvious fields,Transplant some living blossoms, to adornMy native clime; while, far beyond the meedOf Fancy's toil aspiring, I unlockThe springs of ancient wisdom; while I add(What cannot be disjoin'd from Beauty's praise)Thy name and native dress, thy works belovedAnd honour'd; while to my compatriot youthI point the great example of thy sons,And tune to Attic themes the British lyre.