Or fly pollution, not for fear of stain, But that some statute tells us to refrain? The grosser herd in ties like these we bind, In virtue's freedom moves th' enlighten'd mind." "Man's heart deceives him," said a friend.--"Of course," Replied the Youth; "but has it power to force? Unless it forces, call it as you will, It is but wish, and proneness to the ill." "Art thou not tempted?"--"Do I fall?" said Shore. "The pure have fallen."--"Then are pure no more. While reason guides me, I shall walk aright, Nor need a steadier hand, or stronger light; Nor this in dread of awful threats, design'd For the weak spirit and the grov'ling mind; But that, engaged by thoughts and views sublime, I wage free war with grossness and with crime." Thus look'd he proudly on the vulgar crew, Whom statutes govern, and whom fears subdue. Faith, with his virtue, he indeed profess'd, But doubts deprived his ardent mind of rest; Reason, his sovereign mistress, fail'd to show Light through the mazes of the world below: Questions arose, and they surpass'd the skill Of his sole aid, and would be dubious still; These to discuss he sought no common guide, But to the doubters in his doubts applied; When all together might in freedom speak, And their loved truth with mutual ardour seek. Alas! though men who feel their eyes decay Take more than common pains to find their way, Yet, when for this they ask each other's aid, Their mutual purpose is the more delay'd: Of all their doubts, their reasoning clear'd not one, Still the same spots were present in the sun: Still the same scruples haunted Edward's mind, Who found no rest, nor took the means to find. But though with shaken faith, and slave to fame, Vain and aspiring on the world he came, Yet was he studious, serious, moral, grave, No passion's victim, and no system's slave: Vice he opposed, indulgence he disdain'd, And o'er each sense in conscious triumph reign'd. Who often reads will sometimes wish to write, And Shore would yield instruction and delight: A serious drama he design'd, but found 'Twas tedious travelling in that gloomy ground; A deep and solemn story he would try, But grew ashamed of ghosts, and laid it by; Sermons he wrote, but they who knew his creed, Or knew it not, were ill-disposed to read; And he would lastly be the nation's guide, But, studying, fail'd to fix upon a side; Fame he desired, and talents he possess'd, But loved not labour, though he could not rest, Nor firmly fix the vacillating mind, That, ever working, could no centre find. 'Tis thus a sanguine reader loves to trace The Nile forth rushing on his glorious race; Calm and secure the fancied traveller goes Through sterile deserts and by threat'ning foes; He thinks not then of Afric's scorching sands, Th' Arabian sea, the Abyssinian bands; Fasils and Michaels, and the robbers all, {4} Whom we politely chiefs and heroes call: He of success alone delights to think, He views that fount, he stands upon the brink,