Has travell'd the profound six thousand years, Nor yet arrives in sight of mortal things. Even on the barriers of the world untired She meditates the eternal depth below; 208 Till, half recoiling, down the headlong steep She plunges; soon o'erwhelm'd and swallow'd up In that immense of being. There her hopes Rest at the fated goal. For from the birth Of mortal man, the Sovereign Maker said, That not in humble nor in brief delight, Not in the fading echoes of renown, Power's purple robes, nor pleasure's flowery lap, The soul should find enjoyment: but from these Turning disdainful to an equal good, Through all the ascent of things enlarge her view, Till every bound at length should disappear, 220 And infinite perfection close the scene. Call now to mind what high capacious powers Lie folded up in man; how far beyond The praise of mortals, may the eternal growth Of Nature to perfection half divine, Expand the blooming soul! What pity then Should sloth's unkindly fogs depress to earth Her tender blossom; choke the streams of life, And blast her spring! Far otherwise design'd Almighty Wisdom; Nature's happy cares 230 The obedient heart far otherwise incline. Witness the sprightly joy when aught unknown Strikes the quick sense, and wakes each active power To brisker measures: witness the neglect Of all familiar prospects, [Endnote D] though beheld With transport once; the fond attentive gaze Of young astonishment; the sober zeal Of age, commenting on prodigious things. For such the bounteous providence of Heaven, In every breast implanting this desire 240 Of objects new and strange, [Endnote E] to urge us on With unremitted labour to pursue Those sacred stores that wait the ripening soul, In Truth's exhaustless bosom. What need words To paint its power? For this the daring youth Breaks from his weeping mother's anxious arms, In foreign climes to rove; the pensive sage, Heedless of sleep, or midnight's harmful damp, Hangs o'er the sickly taper; and untired The virgin follows, with enchanted step, 250 The mazes of some wild and wondrous tale, From morn to eve; unmindful of her form, Unmindful of the happy dress that stole The wishes of the youth, when every maid With envy pined. Hence, finally, by night The village matron, round the blazing hearth, Suspends the infant audience with her tales, Breathing astonishment! of witching rhymes, And evil spirits; of the death-bed call Of him who robb'd the widow, and devour'd 260 The orphan's portion; of unquiet souls Risen from the grave to ease the heavy guilt Of deeds in life conceal'd; of shapes that walk At dead of night, and clank their chains, and wave The torch of hell around the murderer's bed. At every solemn pause the crowd recoil,