But when through blameless paths to righteous ends Those keener passions urge the awaken'd soul, 600 I would not, as ungracious violence, Their sway describe, nor from their free career The fellowship of Pleasure quite exclude. For what can render, to the self-approved, Their temper void of comfort, though in pain? Who knows not with what majesty divine The forms of Truth and Justice to the mind Appear, ennobling oft the sharpest woe With triumph and rejoicing? Who, that bears A human bosom, hath not often felt 610 How dear are all those ties which bind our race In gentleness together, and how sweet Their force, let Fortune's wayward hand the while Be kind or cruel? Ask the faithful youth, Why the cold urn of her whom long he loved So often fills his arms; so often draws His lonely footsteps, silent and unseen, To pay the mournful tribute of his tears? Oh! he will tell thee that the wealth of worlds Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego 620 Those sacred hours when, stealing from the noise Of care and envy, sweet remembrance soothes With Virtue's kindest looks his aching breast, And turns his tears to rapture. Ask the crowd, Which flies impatient from the village walk To climb the neighbouring cliffs, when far below The savage winds have hurl'd upon the coast Some helpless bark; while holy Pity melts The general eye, or Terror's icy hand Smites their distorted limbs and horrent hair; 630 While every mother closer to her breast Catcheth her child, and, pointing where the waves Foam through the shatter'd vessel, shrieks aloud As one poor wretch, who spreads his piteous arms For succour, swallow'd by the roaring surge, As now another, dash'd against the rock, Drops lifeless down. Oh! deemest thou indeed No pleasing influence here by Nature given To mutual terror and compassion's tears? No tender charm mysterious, which attracts 640 O'er all that edge of pain the social powers To this their proper action and their end? Ask thy own heart; when at the midnight hour, Slow through that pensive gloom thy pausing eye, Led by the glimmering taper, moves around The reverend volumes of the dead, the songs Of Grecian bards, and records writ by fame For Grecian heroes, where the sovereign Power Of heaven and earth surveys the immortal page, Even as a father meditating all 650 The praises of his son, and bids the rest Of mankind there the fairest model learn Of their own nature, and the noblest deeds Which yet the world hath seen. If then thy soul Join in the lot of those diviner men; Say, when the prospect darkens on thy view; When, sunk by many a wound, heroic states Mourn in the dust and tremble at the frown Of hard Ambition; when the generous band