But let not these inexpiable strains Condemn the Muse that knows her dignity; Nor meanly stops at time, but holds the world 55 As 'tis, in nature's ample field, a point, A point in her esteem; from whence to start, And run the round of universal space, To visit being universal there, And being's source, that utmost flight of mind! Yet, spite of this so vast circumference, Well knows, but what is moral, nought is great. 62 Sing syrens only? Do not angels sing? There is in Poesy a decent pride, Which well becomes her when she speaks to Prose, Her younger sister; haply, not more wise. Think'st thou, Lorenzo! to find pastimes here? No guilty passion blown into a flame, No foible flatter'd, dignity disgraced, No fairy field of fiction, all on flower, 70 No rainbow colours here, or silken tale: But solemn counsels, images of awe, Truths, which eternity lets fall on man With double weight, through these revolving spheres, This death-deep silence, and incumbent shade: Thoughts, such as shall revisit your last hour; Visit uncall'd, and live when life expires; And thy dark pencil, Midnight! darker still In melancholy dipp'd, embrowns the whole. Yet this, even this, my laughter-loving friends! 80 Lorenzo! and thy brothers of the smile! If, what imports you most, can most engage, Shall steal your ear, and chain you to my song. Or if you fail me, know, the wise shall taste The truths I sing; the truths I sing shall feel; And, feeling, give assent; and their assent Is ample recompence; is more than praise. But chiefly thine, O Lichfield! nor mistake; Think not unintroduced I force my way; 89 Narcissa, not unknown, not unallied, By virtue, or by blood, illustrious youth! To thee, from blooming amaranthine bowers, Where all the language harmony, descends Uncall'd, and asks admittance for the Muse: A Muse that will not pain thee with thy praise; Thy praise she drops, by nobler still inspired. O Thou! Blest Spirit! whether the supreme, Great antemundane Father! in whose breast Embryo creation, unborn being, dwelt, And all its various revolutions roll'd 100 Present, though future; prior to themselves; Whose breath can blow it into nought again; Or, from his throne some delegated power, Who, studious of our peace, dost turn the thought From vain and vile, to solid and sublime! Unseen thou lead'st me to delicious draughts Of inspiration, from a purer stream, And fuller of the god, than that which burst From famed Castalia: nor is yet allay'd My sacred thirst; though long my soul has ranged 110 Through pleasing paths of moral, and divine, By Thee sustain'd, and lighted by the stars. By them best lighted are the paths of thought: Nights are their days, their most illumined hours.