Call it, the noble pasture of the mind; Which there expatiates, strengthens, and exults, 1040 And riots through the luxuries of thought. Call it, the garden of the Deity, Blossom'd with stars, redundant in the growth Of fruit ambrosial; moral fruit to man. Call it, the breastplate of the true High Priest, Ardent with gems oracular, that give, In points of highest moment, right response; And ill neglected, if we prize our peace. Thus, have we found a true astrology; Thus, have we found a new, and noble sense, 1050 In which alone stars govern human fates. O that the stars (as some have feign'd) let fall Bloodshed, and havoc, on embattled realms, And rescued monarchs from so black a guilt! Bourbon! this wish how generous in a foe! Would'st thou be great, would'st thou become a god, And stick thy deathless name among the stars, For mighty conquests on a needle's point? Instead of forging chains for foreigners, Bastile thy tutor: grandeur all thy aim? 1060 As yet thou know'st not what it is: how great, How glorious, then, appears the mind of man, When in it all the stars, and planets, roll! And what it seems, it is: great objects make Great minds, enlarging as their views enlarge; 1065 Those still more godlike, as these more divine. And more divine than these, thou canst not see. Dazzled, o'erpower'd, with the delicious draught Of miscellaneous splendours, how I reel From thought to thought, inebriate, without end! An Eden, this! a Paradise unlost! I meet the Deity in every view, 1072 And tremble at my nakedness before him! O that I could but reach the tree of life! For here it grows, unguarded from our taste; No flaming sword denies our entrance here; Would man but gather, he might live for ever. Lorenzo! much of moral hast thou seen. Of curious arts art thou more fond? Then mark The mathematic glories of the skies, 1080 In number, weight, and measure, all ordain'd. Lorenzo's boasted builders, Chance, and Fate, Are left to finish his aerial towers; Wisdom and choice, their well-known characters Here deep impress; and claim it for their own. Though splendid all, no splendour void of use; Use rivals beauty; art contends with power; No wanton waste, amid effuse expense; The great Economist adjusting all To prudent pomp, magnificently wise. 1090 How rich the prospect! and for ever new! And newest to the man that views it most; For newer still in infinite succeeds. Then, these aerial racers, O how swift! How the shaft loiters from the strongest string! Spirit alone can distance the career. Orb above orb ascending without end! Circle in circle, without end, enclosed! Wheel, within wheel; Ezekiel! like to thine! 1099