"Yet leave me not. I would allay that grief, Which else might thy young virtue overpower; And in thy converse I shall find relief, When the dark shades of melancholy lower; For solitude has many a dreary hour, Even when exempt from grief, remorse, and pain: Come often then; for haply, in my bower, Amusement, knowledge, wisdom thou mayst gain: If I one soul improve, I have not lived in vain." 33 And now, at length, to Edwin's ardent gaze The Muse of history unrolls her page. But few, alas! the scenes her art displays, To charm his fancy, or his heart engage. Here chiefs their thirst of power in blood assuage, And straight their flames with tenfold fierceness burn Here smiling Virtue prompts the patriot's rage, But, lo! ere long, is left alone to mourn, And languish in the dust, and clasp the abandon'd urn. 34 "Ambition's slippery verge shall mortals tread, Where ruin's gulf, unfathom'd, yawns beneath? Shall life, shall liberty be lost," he said, "For the vain toys that Pomp and Power bequeath? The car of victory, the plume, the wreath Defend not from the bolt of fate the brave: No note the clarion of Renown can breathe, To alarm the long night of the lonely grave, Or check the headlong haste of time's o'erwhelming wave. 35 "Ah, what avails it to have traced the springs, That whirl of empire the stupendous wheel? Ah, what have I to do with conquering kings, Hands drench'd in blood, and breasts begirt with steel? To those, whom Nature taught to think and feel, Heroes, alas! are things of small concern; Could History man's secret heart reveal, And what imports a heaven-born mind to learn, Her transcripts to explore what bosom would not yearn? 36 "This praise, O Cheronean sage [3] is thine! (Why should this praise to thee alone belong?) All else from Nature's moral path decline, Lured by the toys that captivate the throng; To herd in cabinets and camps, among Spoil, carnage, and the cruel pomp of pride; Or chant of heraldry the drowsy song, How tyrant blood o'er many a region wide, Rolls to a thousand thrones its execrable tide. 37 "Oh, who of man the story will unfold, Ere victory and empire wrought annoy, In that Elysian age misnamed of gold), The age of love, and innocence and joy, When all were great and free! man's sole employ To deck the bosom of his parent earth; Or toward his bower the murmuring stream decoy, To aid the floweret's long-expected birth, And lull the bed of peace, and crown the board of mirth? 38