Man last appears. In him the Soul’s pure flame Burns brightlier in a not inord’nate frame. Of old when Heroes fought and Giants swarmed, Men were huge mounds of matter scarce inform’d; Wearied by leavening so vast a mass, The spirit slept and all the mind was crass. The smaller carcase of these later days Is soon inform’d; the Soul unwearied plays And like a Pharos darts abroad her mental rays. But can we think that Providence will stay Man’s footsteps here upon the upward way? Mankind in understanding and in grace Advanc’d so far beyond the Giants’ race? Hence impious thought! Still led by GOD’S own Hand, Mankind proceeds towards the Promised Land. A time will come (prophetic, I descry Remoter dawns along the gloomy sky), When happy mortals of a Golden Age Will backward turn the dark historic page, And in our vaunted race of Men behold A form as gross, a Mind as dead and cold, As we in Giants see, in warriors of old. A time will come, wherein the soul shall be From all superfluous matter wholly free; When the light body, agile as a fawn’s, Shall sport with grace along the velvet lawns. Nature’s most delicate and final birth, Mankind perfected shall possess the earth. But ah, not yet! For still the Giants’ race, Huge, though diminish’d, tramps the Earth’s fair face; Gross and repulsive, yet perversely proud, Men of their imperfections boast aloud. Vain of their bulk, of all they still retain Of giant ugliness absurdly vain; At all that’s small they point their stupid scorn And, monsters, think themselves divinely born. Sad is the Fate of those, ah, sad indeed, The rare precursors of the nobler breed! Who come man’s golden glory to foretell, But pointing Heav’nwards live themselves in Hell.’