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It is not from his form, in which we trace Strength join'd with beauty, dignity with grace, That man; the master of this globe, derives His right of empire over all that lives. That form, indeed, th' associate of a mind Vast in its pow'rs, ethereal in its kind, That form, the labour of almighty skill, Fram’d for the service of a free-born will, Asserts precedence, and bespeaks control, But borrows all its grandeur from the soul. Hers is the state, the fplendour, and the throne, An intellectual kingdom, all her own.
For her the mem’ry fills her ample page
Condemns, approyes, and with a faithful voice... Guides the decision of a doubtful choice.
Why did the fiat of a God give birth To yon fair fun and his attendant earth? And, when descending he resigns the skies, Why takes the gentler moon her turn to rise, Whom ocean feels through all his countless waves, And owns her pow'r on ev'ry shore he laves ?. Why do the seasons still enrich the year, Fruitful and young as in their first career? Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees, Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze; Summer in haste the thriving charge receives Beneath the shade of her expanded leaves, 'Till autumn's fiercer heats and plenteous dews Dye them at last in all their glowing hues.'Twere wild profusion all, and bootless waste, Pow'r misemploy’d, munificence misplac'd,
Had not its author dignified the plan,
And, useless while he lives, and when he dies,
Truths that the learn'd pursue with eager thought Are not important always as dear-bought, Proving at last, though told in pompous strains, A childish waste of philofophic pains ; But truths on which depends our main concern, That 'tis our shame and mis’ry not to learn, Shine by the side of ev'ry path we tread With such a lustre, he that runs may read. 'Tis true that, if to trifle life away Down to the sun-set of their latest day, Then perish on futurity's wide shore Like fleeting exhalations, found no more, Were all that Heav'n requir’d of human kind, And all the plan their destiny design'd, What none could rev’rence all mighty justly blame, And man would breathe but for his Maker's shame.