Book III: 1770

What tongue then may explain the various fateWhich reigns o'er earth? or who to mortal eyesIllustrate this perplexing labyrinthOf joy and woe, through which the feet of manAre doom'd to wander? That Eternal MindFrom passions, wants, and envy far estranged,Who built the spacious universe, and deck'dEach part so richly with whate'er pertainsTo life, to health, to pleasure, why bade heThe viper Evil, creeping in, polluteThe goodly scene, and with insidious rage,While the poor inmate looks around and smilesDart her fell sting with poison to his soul?Hard is the question, and from ancient daysHath still oppress'd with care the sage's thought;Hath drawn forth accents from the poet's lyreToo sad, too deeply plaintive; nor did e'erThose chiefs of human kind, from whom the lightOf heavenly truth first gleam'd on barbarous lands,Forget this dreadful secret when they toldWhat wondrous things had to their favour'd eyesAnd ears on cloudy mountain been reveal'd,Or in deep cave by nymph or power divine,Portentous oft, and wild. Yet one I know.Could I the speech of lawgivers assume,One old and splendid tale I would record,With which the Muse of Solon in sweet strainsAdorn'd this theme profound, and render'd allIts darkness, all its terrors, bright as noon,Or gentle as the golden star of eve.Who knows not Solon,--last, and wisest far,Of those whom Greece, triumphant in the heightOf glory, styled her fathers,--him whose voiceThrough Athens hush'd the storm of civil wrath;Taught envious Want and cruel Wealth to joinIn friendship; and, with sweet compulsion, tamedMinerva's eager people to his laws,Which their own goddess in his breast inspired?

'Twas now the time when his heroic taskSeem'd but perform'd in vain; when, soothed by yearsOf flattering service, the fond multitudeHung with their sudden counsels on the breathOf great Pisistratus, that chief renown'd,Whom Hermes and the Idalian queen had train'd,Even from his birth, to every powerful artOf pleasing and persuading; from whose lipsFlow'd eloquence which, like the vows of love,Could steal away suspicion from the heartsOf all who listen'd. Thus from day to dayHe won the general suffrage, and beheldEach rival overshadow'd and depress'dBeneath his ampler state; yet oft complain'd,As one less kindly treated, who had hopedTo merit favour, but submits perforceTo find another's services preferr'd,Nor yet relaxeth aught of faith or zeal.Then tales were scatter'd of his envious foes,Of snares that watch'd his fame, of daggers aim'dAgainst his life. At last, with trembling limbs,His hair diffused and wild, his garments loose,And stain'd with blood from self-inflicted wounds,He burst into the public place, as there,There only, were his refuge; and declaredIn broken words, with sighs of deep regret,The mortal danger he had scarce repell'd.Fired with his tragic tale, the indignant crowd,To guard his steps, forthwith a menial band,Array'd beneath his eye for deeds of war,Decree. Oh! still too liberal of their trust,And oft betray'd by over-grateful love,The generous people! Now behold him fencedBy mercenary weapons, like a king,Forth issuing from the city-gate at eveTo seek his rural mansion, and with pompCrowding the public road. The swain stops short,And sighs; the officious townsmen stand at gaze,And shrinking give the sullen pageant room.Yet not the less obsequious was his brow;Nor less profuse of courteous words his tongue,Of gracious gifts his hand; the while by stealth,Like a small torrent fed with evening showers,His train increased; till, at that fatal timeJust as the public eye, with doubt and shameStartled, began to question what it saw,Swift as the sound of earthquakes rush'd a voiceThrough Athens, that Pisistratus had fill'dThe rocky citadel with hostile arms,Had barr'd the steep ascent, and sate withinAmid his hirelings, meditating deathTo all whose stubborn necks his yoke refused.Where then was Solon? After ten long yearsOf absence, full of haste from foreign shores,The sage, the lawgiver had now arrived:Arrived, alas! to see that Athens, thatFair temple raised by him and sacred call'dTo Liberty and Concord, now profanedBy savage hate, or sunk into a denOf slaves who crouch beneath the master's scourge,And deprecate his wrath, and court his chains.Yet did not the wise patriot's grief impedeHis virtuous will, nor was his heart inclinedOne moment with such woman-like distressTo view the transient storms of civil war,As thence to yield his country and her hopesTo all-devouring bondage. His bright helm,Even while the traitor's impious act is told,He buckles on his hoary head; he girdsWith mail his stooping breast; the shield, the spearHe snatcheth; and with swift indignant stridesThe assembled people seeks; proclaims aloudIt was no time for counsel; in their spearsLay all their prudence now; the tyrant yetWas not so firmly seated on his throne,But that one shock of their united forceWould dash him from the summit of his pride,Headlong and grovelling in the dust. 'What elseCan reassert the lost Athenian name,So cheaply to the laughter of the worldBetray'd; by guile beneath an infant's faithSo mock'd and scorn'd? Away, then: Freedom nowAnd Safety dwell not but with Fame in arms;Myself will shew you where their mansion lies,And through the walks of Danger or of DeathConduct you to them.'--While he spake, through allTheir crowded ranks his quick sagacious eyeHe darted; where no cheerful voice was heardOf social daring; no stretch'd arm was seenHastening their common task: but pale mistrustWrinkled each brow; they shook their head, and downTheir slack hands hung; cold sighs and whisper'd doubtsFrom breath to breath stole round. The sage meantimeLook'd speechless on, while his big bosom heaved,Struggling with shame and sorrow, till at lastA tear broke forth; and, 'O immortal shades,O Theseus,' he exclaim'd, 'O Codrus, where,Where are ye now behold for what ye toil'dThrough life! behold for whom ye chose to die!'No more he added; but with lonely stepsWeary and slow, his silver beard depress'd,And his stern eyes bent heedless on the ground,Back to his silent dwelling he repair'd.There o'er the gate, his armour, as a manWhom from the service of the war his chiefDismisseth after no inglorious toil,He fix'd in general view. One wishful lookHe sent, unconscious, toward the public placeAt parting; then beneath his quiet roofWithout a word, without a sigh, retired.Scarce had the morrow's sun his golden raysFrom sweet Hymettus darted o'er the fanesOf Cecrops to the Salaminian shores,When, lo, on Solon's threshold met the feetOf four Athenians, by the same sad careConducted all, than whom the state beheldNone nobler. First came Megacles, the sonOf great Alcmaeon, whom the Lydian king,The mild, unhappy Croesus, in his daysOf glory had with costly gifts adorn'd,Fair vessels, splendid garments, tinctured websAnd heaps of treasured gold, beyond the lotOf many sovereigns; thus requiting wellThat hospitable favour which erewhileAlcmaeon to his messengers had shown,Whom he, with offerings worthy of the god,Sent from his throne in Sardis, to revereApollo's Delphic shrine. With MegaclesApproach'd his son, whom Agarista bore,The virtuous child of Clistheues, whose handOf Grecian sceptres the most ancient farIn Sicyon sway'd: but greater fame he drewFrom arms controll'd by justice, from the loveOf the wise Muses, and the unenvied wreathWhich glad Olympia gave. For thither onceHis warlike steeds the hero led, and thereContended through the tumult of the courseWith skilful wheels. Then victor at the goal,Amid the applauses of assembled Greece,High on his car he stood and waved his arm.Silence ensued: when straight the herald's voiceWas heard, inviting every Grecian youth,Whom Clisthenes content might call his son,To visit, ere twice thirty days were pass'd,The towers of Sicyon. There the chief decreed,Within the circuit of the following year,To join at Hymen's altar, hand in handWith his fair daughter, him among the guestsWhom worthiest he should deem. Forthwith from allThe bounds of Greece the ambitious wooers came:From rich Hesperia; from the Illyrian shore,Where Epidamnus over Adria's surgeLooks on the setting sun; from those brave tribesChaonian or Molossian, whom the raceOf great Achilles governs, glorying stillIn Troy o'erthrown; from rough Aetolia, nurseOf men who first among the Greeks threw offThe yoke of kings, to commerce and to armsDevoted; from Thessalia's fertile meads,Where flows Peneus near the lofty wallsOf Cranon old; from strong Eretria, queenOf all Euboean cities, who, sublimeOn the steep margin of Euripus, viewsAcross the tide the Marathonian plain,Not yet the haunt of glory. Athens too,Minerva's care, among her graceful sonsFound equal lovers for the princely maid:Nor was proud Argos wanting; nor the domesOf sacred Elis; nor the Arcadian grovesThat overshade Alpheus, echoing oftSome shepherd's song. But through the illustrious bandWas none who might with Megacles compareIn all the honours of unblemish'd youth.His was the beauteous bride; and now their son,Young Clisthenes, betimes, at Solon's gateStood anxious; leaning forward on the armOf his great sire, with earnest eyes that ask'dWhen the slow hinge would turn, with restless feet,And cheeks now pale, now glowing; for his heartThrobb'd full of bursting passions, anger, griefWith scorn imbitter'd, by the generous boyScarce understood, but which, like noble seeds,Are destined for his country and himselfIn riper years to bring forth fruits divineOf liberty and glory. Next appear'dTwo brave companions, whom one mother boreTo different lords; but whom the better tiesOf firm esteem and friendship render'd moreThan brothers: first Miltiades, who drewFrom godlike AEacus his ancient line;That AEacus whose unimpeach'd renownFor sanctity and justice won the lyreOf elder bards to celebrate him thronedIn Hades o'er the dead, where his decreesThe guilty soul within the burning gatesOf Tartarus compel, or send the goodTo inhabit with eternal health and peaceThe valleys of Elysium. From a stemSo sacred, ne'er could worthier scion springThan this Miltiades; whose aid ere longThe chiefs of Thrace, already on their ways,Sent by the inspired foreknowing maid who sitsUpon the Delphic tripod, shall imploreTo wield their sceptre, and the rural wealthOf fruitful Chersonesus to protectWith arms and laws. But, nothing careful nowSave for his injured country, here he standsIn deep solicitude with Cimon join'd:Unconscious both what widely different lotsAwait them, taught by nature as they areTo know one common good, one common ill.For Cimon, not his valour, not his birthDerived from Codrus, not a thousand giftsDealt round him with a wise, benignant hand;No, not the Olympic olive, by himselfFrom his own brow transferr'd to soothe the mindOf this Pisistratus, can long preserveFrom the fell envy of the tyrant's sons,And their assassin dagger. But if deathObscure upon his gentle steps attend,Yet fate an ample recompense preparesIn his victorious son, that other greatMiltiades, who o'er the very throneOf Glory shall with Time's assiduous handIn adamantine characters engraveThe name of Athens; and, by Freedom arm'd'Gainst the gigantic pride of Asia's king,Shall all the achievements of the heroes oldSurmount, of Hercules, of all who sail'dFrom Thessaly with Jason, all who foughtFor empire or for fame at Thebes or Troy.

Such were the patriots who within the porchOf Solon had assembled. But the gateNow opens, and across the ample floorStraight they proceed into an open spaceBright with the beams of morn: a verdant spot,Where stands a rural altar, piled with sodsCut from the grassy turf and girt with wreaths,Of branching palm. Here Solon's self they foundClad in a robe of purple pure, and deck'dWith leaves of olive on his reverend brow.He bow'd before the altar, and o'er cakesOf barley from two earthen vessels pour'dOf honey and of milk a plenteous stream;Calling meantime the Muses to acceptHis simple offering, by no victim tingedWith blood, nor sullied by destroying fire,But such as for himself Apollo claimsIn his own Delos, where his favourite hauntIs thence the Altar of the Pious named.

Unseen the guests drew near, and silent view'dThat worship; till the hero-priest his eyeTurn'd toward a seat on which prepared there layA branch of laurel. Then his friends confess'dBefore him stood. Backward his step he drew,As loath that care or tumult should approachThose early rites divine; but soon their looks,So anxious, and their hands, held forth with suchDesponding gesture, bring him on perforceTo speak to their affliction. 'Are ye come,'He cried, 'to mourn with me this common shame?Or ask ye some new effort which may breakOur fetters? Know then, of the public causeNot for yon traitor's cunning or his mightDo I despair; nor could I wish from JoveAught dearer, than at this late hour of life,As once by laws, so now by strenuous arms,From impious violation to assertThe rights our fathers left us. But, alas!What arms? or who shall wield them? Ye beheldThe Athenian people. Many bitter daysMust pass, and many wounds from cruel prideBe felt, ere yet their partial hearts find roomFor just resentment, or their hands indureTo smite this tyrant brood, so near to allTheir hopes, so oft admired, so long beloved.That time will come, however. Be it yoursTo watch its fair approach, and urge it onWith honest prudence; me it ill beseemsAgain to supplicate the unwilling crowdTo rescue from a vile deceiver's holdThat envied power, which once with eager zealThey offer'd to myself; nor can I plungeIn counsels deep and various, nor prepareFor distant wars, thus faltering as I treadOn life's last verge, ere long to join the shadesOf Minos and Lycurgus. But beholdWhat care employs me now. My vows I payTo the sweet Muses, teachers of my youthAnd solace of my age. If right I deemOf the still voice that whispers at my heart,The immortal sisters have not quite withdrawnTheir old harmonious influence. Let your tonguesWith sacred silence favour what I speak,And haply shall my faithful lips be taughtTo unfold celestial counsels, which may arm,As with impenetrable steel your breasts,For the long strife before you, and repelThe darts of adverse fate.'--He said, and snatch'dThe laurel bough, and sate in silence down,Fix'd, wrapp'd in solemn musing, full beforeThe sun, who now from all his radiant orbDrove the gray clouds, and pour'd his genial lightUpon the breast of Solon. Solon raisedAloft the leafy rod, and thus began:--

'Ye beauteous offspring of Olympian JoveAnd Memory divine, Pierian maids,Hear me, propitious. In the morn of life,When hope shone bright and all the prospect smiled,To your sequester'd mansion oft my stepsWere turn'd, O Muses, and within your gateMy offerings paid. Ye taught me then with strainsOf flowing harmony to soften war'sDire voice, or in fair colours, that might charmThe public eye, to clothe the form austereOf civil counsel. Now my feeble age,Neglected, and supplanted of the hopeOn which it lean'd, yet sinks not, but to you,To your mild wisdom flies, refuge belovedOf solitude and silence. Ye can teachThe visions of my bed whate'er the godsIn the rude ages of the world inspired,Or the first heroes acted; ye can makeThe morning light more gladsome to my senseThan ever it appear'd to active youthPursuing careless pleasure; ye can giveTo this long leisure, these unheeded hours,A labour as sublime, as when the sonsOf Athens throng'd and speechless round me stood,To hear pronounced for all their future deedsThe bounds of right and wrong. Celestial powers!I feel that ye are near me: and behold,To meet your energy divine, I bringA high and sacred theme; not less than thoseWhich to the eternal custody of FameYour lips intrusted, when of old ye deign'dWith Orpheus or with Homer to frequentThe groves of Haemus or the Chian shore.

'Ye know, harmonious maids, (for what of allMy various life was e'er from you estranged?)Oft hath my solitary song to youReveal'd that duteous pride which turn'd my stepsTo willing exile; earnest to withdrawFrom envy and the disappointed thirstOf lucre, lest the bold familiar strife,Which in the eye of Athens they upheldAgainst her legislator, should impairWith trivial doubt the reverence of his laws.To Egypt therefore through the AEgean islesMy course I steer'd, and by the banks of NileDwelt in Canopus. Thence the hallow'd domesOf Sals, and the rites to Isis paid,I sought, and in her temple's silent courts,Through many changing moons, attentive heardThe venerable Sonchis, while his tongueAt morn or midnight the deep story toldOf her who represents whate'er has been,Or is, or shall be; whose mysterious veilNo mortal hand hath ever yet removed.By him exhorted, southward to the wallsOf On I pass'd, the city of the sun,The ever-youthful god. Twas there, amidHis priests and sages, who the livelong nightWatch the dread movements of the starry sphere,Or who in wondrous fables half discloseThe secrets of the elements, 'twas thereThat great Paenophis taught my raptured earsThe fame of old Atlantis, of her chiefs,And her pure laws, the first which earth obey'd.Deep in my bosom sunk the noble tale;And often, while I listen'd, did my mindForetell with what delight her own free lyreShould sometime for an Attic audience raiseAnew that lofty scene, and from their tombsCall forth those ancient demigods, to speakOf Justice and the hidden ProvidenceThat walks among mankind. But yet meantimeThe mystic pomp of Ammon's gloomy sonsBecame less pleasing. With contempt I gazedOn that tame garb and those unvarying paths,To which the double yoke of king and priestHad cramp'd the sullen race. At last, with hymnsInvoking our own Pallas and the godsOf cheerful Greece, a glad farewell I gaveTo Egypt, and before the southern windSpread my full sails. What climes I then survey'd,What fortunes I encounter'd in the realmOf Croesus or upon the Cyprian shore,The Muse, who prompts my bosom, doth not nowConsent that I reveal. But when at lengthTen times the sun returning from the southHad strow'd with flowers the verdant earth, and fill'dThe groves with music, pleased I then beheldThe term of those long errors drawing nigh.Nor yet, I said, will I sit down withinThe walls of Athens, till my feet have trodThe Cretan soil, have pierced those reverend hauntsWhence Law and Civil Concord issued forthAs from their ancient home, and still to GreeceTheir wisest, loftiest discipline proclaim.Straight where Amnisus, mart of wealthy ships,Appears beneath famed Cnossus and her towers,Like the fair handmaid of a stately queen,I check'd my prow, and thence with eager stepsThe city of Minos enter'd. O ye gods,Who taught the leaders of the simpler timeBy written words to curb the untoward willOf mortals, how within that generous isleHave ye the triumphs of your power display'dMunificent! Those splendid merchants, lordsOf traffic and the sea, with what delightI saw them, at their public meal, like sonsOf the same household, join the plainer sortWhose wealth was only freedom! whence to theseVile envy, and to those fantastic pride,Alike was strange; but noble concord stillCherish'd the strength untamed, the rustic faith,Of their first fathers. Then the growing race,How pleasing to behold them in their schools,Their sports, their labours, ever placed within,O shade of Minos! thy controlling eye.Here was a docile band in tuneful tonesThy laws pronouncing, or with lofty hymnsPraising the bounteous gods, or, to preserveTheir country's heroes from oblivious night,Resounding what the Muse inspired of old;There, on the verge of manhood, others met,In heavy armour through the heats of noonTo march, the rugged mountain's height to climbWith measured swiftness, from the hard-bent bowTo send resistless arrows to their mark,Or for the fame of prowess to contend,Now wrestling, now with fists and staves opposed,Now with the biting falchion, and the fenceOf brazen shields; while still the warbling flutePresided o'er the combat, breathing strainsGrave, solemn, soft; and changing headlong spiteTo thoughtful resolution cool and clear.Such I beheld those islanders renown'd,So tutor'd from their birth to meet in warEach bold invader, and in peace to guardThat living flame of reverence for their laws,Which nor the storms of fortune, nor the floodOf foreign wealth diffused o'er all the land,Could quench or slacken. First of human namesIn every Cretan's heart was Minos still;And holiest far, of what the sun surveysThrough his whole course, were those primeval seatsWhich with religious footsteps he had taughtTheir sires to approach; the wild Dictaean caveWhere Jove was born: the ever verdant meadsOf Ida, and the spacious grotto, whereHis active youth he pass'd, and where his throneYet stands mysterious; whither Minos cameEach ninth returning year, the king of godsAnd mortals there in secret to consultOn justice, and the tables of his lawTo inscribe anew. Oft also with like zealGreat Rhea's mansion from the Cnossian gatesMen visit; nor less oft the antique faneBuilt on that sacred spot, along the banksOf shady Theron, where benignant JoveAnd his majestic consort join'd their handsAnd spoke their nuptial vows. Alas, 'twas thereThat the dire fame of Athens sunk in bondsI first received; what time an annual feastHad summon'd all the genial country round,By sacrifice and pomp to bring to mindThat first great spousal; while the enamour'd youthsAnd virgins, with the priest before the shrine,Observe the same pure ritual, and invokeThe same glad omens. There, among the crowdOf strangers from those naval cities drawnWhich deck, like gems, the island's northern shore,A merchant of AEgina I descried,My ancient host; but, forward as I sprungTo meet him, he, with dark dejected brow,Stopp'd half averse; and, "O Athenian guest,"He said, "art thou in Crete, these joyful ritesPartaking? Know thy laws are blotted out:Thy country kneels before a tyrant's throne."He added names of men, with hostile deedsDisastrous; which obscure and indistinctI heard: for, while he spake, my heart grew coldAnd my eyes dim; the altars and their trainNo more were present to me; how I fared,Or whither turn'd, I know not; nor recallAught of those moments, other than the senseOf one who struggles in oppressive sleep,And, from the toils of some distressful dreamTo break away, with palpitating heart,Weak limbs, and temples bathed in death-like dew,Makes many a painful effort. When at lastThe sun and nature's face again appear'd,Not far I found me, where the public path,Winding through cypress groves and swelling meads,From Cnossus to the cave of Jove ascends.Heedless I follow'd on; till soon the skirtsOf Ida rose before me, and the vaultWide opening pierced the mountain's rocky side.Entering within the threshold, on the groundI flung me, sad, faint, overworn with toil.'

One effort more, one cheerful sally more,Our destined course will finish; and in peaceThen, for an offering sacred to the powersWho lent us gracious guidance, we will thenInscribe a monument of deathless praise,O my adventurous song! With steady speedLong hast thou, on an untried voyage bound,Sail'd between earth and heaven: hast now survey'd,Stretch'd out beneath thee, all the mazy tractsOf Passion and Opinion; like a wasteOf sands and flowery lawns and tangling woods,Where mortals roam bewilder'd: and hast nowExulting soar'd among the worlds above,Or hover'd near the eternal gates of heaven,If haply the discourses of the gods,A curious, but an unpresuming guest,Thou mightst partake, and carry back some strainOf divine wisdom, lawful to repeat,And apt to be conceived of man below.A different task remains; the secret pathsOf early genius to explore: to traceThose haunts where Fancy her predestined sons,Like to the demigods of old, doth nurseRemote from eyes profane. Ye happy soulsWho now her tender discipline obey,Where dwell ye? What wild river's brink at eveImprint your steps? What solemn groves at noonUse ye to visit, often breaking forthIn rapture 'mid your dilatory walk,Or musing, as in slumber, on the green?--Would I again were with you!-O ye dalesOf Tyne, and ye most ancient woodlands; where,Oft as the giant flood obliquely strides,And his banks open, and his lawns extend,Stops short the pleased traveller to viewPresiding o'er the scene some rustic towerFounded by Norman or by Saxon hands:O ye Northumbrian shades, which overlookThe rocky pavement and the mossy fallsOf solitary Wensbeck's limpid stream;How gladly I recall your well-known seatsBeloved of old, and that delightful timeWhen all alone, for many a summer's day,I wander'd through your calm recesses, ledIn silence by some powerful hand unseen.

Nor will I e'er forget you; nor shall e'erThe graver tasks of manhood, or the adviceOf vulgar wisdom, move me to disclaimThose studies which possess'd me in the dawnOf life, and fix'd the colour of my mindFor every future year: whence even nowFrom sleep I rescue the clear hours of morn,And, while the world around lies overwhelm'dIn idle darkness, am alive to thoughtsOf honourable fame, of truth divineOr moral, and of minds to virtue wonBy the sweet magic of harmonious verse;The themes which now expect us. For thus farOn general habits, and on arts which growSpontaneous in the minds of all mankind,Hath dwelt our argument; and how, self-taught,Though seldom conscious of their own employ,In Nature's or in Fortune's changeful sceneMen learn to judge of Beauty, and acquireThose forms set up, as idols in the soulFor love and zealous praise. Yet indistinct,In vulgar bosoms, and unnoticed lieThese pleasing stores, unless the casual forceOf things external prompt the heedless mindTo recognise her wealth. But some there areConscious of Nature, and the rule which manO'er Nature holds; some who, within themselvesRetiring from the trivial scenes of chanceAnd momentary passion, can at willCall up these fair exemplars of the mind;Review their features; scan the secret lawsWhich bind them to each other: and displayBy forms, or sounds, or colours, to the senseOf all the world their latent charms display;Even as in Nature's frame (if such a word,If such a word, so bold, may from the lipsOf man proceed) as in this outward frameOf things, the great Artificer portraysHis own immense idea. Various namesThese among mortals bear, as various signsThey use, and by peculiar organs speakTo human sense. There are who, by the flightOf air through tubes with moving stops distinct,Or by extended chords in measure taughtTo vibrate, can assemble powerful soundsExpressing every temper of the mindFrom every cause, and charming all the soulWith passion void of care. Others mean timeThe rugged mass of metal, wood, or stone,Patiently taming; or with easier handDescribing lines, and with more ample scopeUniting colours; can to general sightProduce those permanent and perfect forms,Those characters of heroes and of gods,Which from the crude materials of the world,Their own high minds created. But the chiefAre poets; eloquent men, who dwell on earthTo clothe whate'er the soul admires or lovesWith language and with numbers. Hence to theseA field is open'd wide as Nature's sphere;Nay, wider: various as the sudden actsOf human wit, and vast as the demandsOf human will. The bard nor length, nor depth,Nor place, nor form controls. To eyes, to ears,To every organ of the copious mind,He offereth all its treasures. Him the hours,The seasons him obey, and changeful TimeSees him at will keep measure with his flight,At will outstrip it. To enhance his toil,He summoneth, from the uttermost extentOf things which God hath taught him, every formAuxiliar, every power; and all besideExcludes imperious. His prevailing handGives, to corporeal essence, life and senseAnd every stately function of the soul.The soul itself to him obsequious lies,Like matter's passive heap; and as he wills,To reason and affection he assignsTheir just alliances, their just degrees:Whence his peculiar honours; whence the raceOf men who people his delightful world,Men genuine and according to themselves,Transcend as far the uncertain sons of earth,As earth itself to his delightful world,The palm of spotless Beauty doth resign.