Pensive I spoke, and cast mine eyes around; The Roof, methought, return’d a solemn Sound; Each Column seem’d to shake, and Clouds, like Smoke, From dusty Piles and ancient Volumes broke; Gathering above, like Mists condens’d they seem, Exhal’d in Summer from the rushy Stream; Like flowing Robes they now appear, and twine Round the large Members of a Form divine; His Silver Beard, that swept his aged Breast, } His piercing Eye, that inward Light express’d, } Were seen,--but Clouds and Darkness veil’d the rest.} Fear chill’d my Heart; to one of mortal Race, How awful seem’d the Genius of the Place! So in Cimmerian shores, Ulysses saw His Parent-shade, and shrunk in pious awe; Like him I stood, and wrapt in thought profound, When from the pitying Power broke forth a solemn Sound:-- “Care lives with all; no Rules, no Precepts save} The Wise from Woe, no Fortitude the Brave: } Grief is to Man as certain as the Grave; } Tempests and Storms in Life’s whole progress rise, And Hope shines dimly through o’erclouded skies; Some drops of Comfort on the favour’d fall, But showers of Sorrow are the Lot of _all_: Partial to Talents, then, shall Heav’n withdraw Th’ afflicting Rod, or break the general Law? Shall he who soars, inspir’d by loftier Views, Life’s little Cares and little Pains refuse? Shall he not rather feel a double Share Of mortal Woe, when doubly arm’d to bear? “Hard is his Fate who builds his Peace of Mind On the precarious Mercy of Mankind; Who hopes for wild and visionary things, And mounts o’er unknown Seas with vent’rous Wings: But as, of various Evils that befall The human Race, some Portion goes to all; To him perhaps the milder Lot’s assign’d, Who feels his Consolation in his Mind; And lock’d within his Bosom, bears about A mental Charm for every Care, without. Ev’n in the Pangs of each domestic Grief, Or Health or vigorous Hope affords Relief; And every Wound the tortur’d Bosom feels, Or Virtue bears, or some Preserver heals; Some generous Friend, of ample Power possest; Some feeling Heart, that bleeds for the distrest; Some Breast that glows with Virtues all divine; Some noble RUTLAND, Misery’s Friend and thine. “Nor say, the Muses’ Song, the Poet’s Pen, Merit the Scorn they meet from little men. With cautious freedom if the Numbers flow, Not wildly high, not pitifully low; If Vice alone their honest Aims oppose, Why so asham’d their Friends, so loud their Foes? Happy for Men in every Age and Clime, If all the Sons of Vision dealt in Rhyme. Go on then, Son of Vision! still pursue The airy Dreams; the World is dreaming too. Ambition’s lofty Views, the Pomp of State, The Pride of Wealth, the Splendour of the Great,