O long revered, and late resign'd to shame! If this uncourtly page thy notice claim 220 When the loud cares of business are withdrawn, Nor well-dress'd beggars round thy footsteps fawn; In that still, thoughtful, solitary hour, When Truth exerts her unresisted power, Breaks the false optics tinged with fortune's glare, Unlocks the breast, and lays the passions bare; Then turn thy eyes on that important scene, And ask thyself--if all be well within. Where is the heart-felt worth and weight of soul, Which labour could not stop, nor fear control? 230 Where the known dignity, the stamp of awe, Which, half-abash'd, the proud and venal saw? Where the calm triumphs of an honest cause? Where the delightful taste of just applause? Where the strong reason, the commanding tongue, On which the senate fired or trembling hung? All vanish'd, all are sold--and in their room, Couch'd in thy bosom's deep, distracted gloom, See the pale form of barbarous Grandeur dwell, Like some grim idol in a sorcerer's cell! 210 To her in chains thy dignity was led; At her polluted shrine thy honour bled; With blasted weeds thy awful brow she crown'd, Thy powerful tongue with poison'd philters bound, That baffled Reason straight indignant flew, And fair Persuasion from her seat withdrew: For now no longer Truth supports thy cause; No longer Glory prompts thee to applause; No longer Virtue breathing in thy breast, With all her conscious majesty confess'd, 250 Still bright and brighter wakes the almighty flame, To rouse the feeble, and the wilful tame, And where she sees the catching glimpses roll, Spreads the strong blaze, and all involves the soul; But cold restraints thy conscious fancy chill, And formal passions mock thy struggling will; Or, if thy Genius e'er forget his chain, And reach impatient at a nobler strain, Soon the sad bodings of contemptuous mirth Shoot through thy breast, and stab the generous birth, 260 Till, blind with smart, from truth to frenzy toss'd, And all the tenor of thy reason lost, Perhaps thy anguish drains a real tear; While some with pity, some with laughter hear.-- Can art, alas! or genius, guide the head, Where truth and freedom from the heart are fled? Can lesser wheels repeat their native stroke, When the prime function of the soul is broke?