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Than all of taste his tongue. Nor ever yet

       The melting rainbow's vernal-tinctured hues

       To me have shown so pleasing, as when first

       The hand of Science pointed out the path

       In which the sunbeams, gleaming from the west,

       Fall on the watery cloud, whose darksome veil

       Involves the orient; and that trickling shower

       Piercing through every crystalline convex 110

       Of clustering dewdrops to their flight opposed,

       Recoil at length where concave all behind

       The internal surface of each glassy orb

       Repels their forward passage into air;

       That thence direct they seek the radiant goal

       From which their course began; and, as they strike

       In different lines the gazer's obvious eye,

       Assume a different lustre, through the brede

       Of colours changing from the splendid rose

       To the pale violet's dejected hue. 120

      Or shall we touch that kind access of joy,

       That springs to each fair object, while we trace,

       Through all its fabric, Wisdom's artful aim,

       Disposing every part, and gaining still,

       By means proportion'd, her benignant end?

       Speak ye, the pure delight, whose favour'd steps

       The lamp of Science through the jealous maze

       Of Nature guides, when haply you reveal

       Her secret honours: whether in the sky,

       The beauteous laws of light, the central powers 130

       That wheel the pensile planets round the year;

       Whether in wonders of the rolling deep,

       Or the rich fruits of all-sustaining earth,

       Or fine-adjusted springs of life and sense,

       Ye scan the counsels of their Author's hand.

      What, when to raise the meditated scene,

       The flame of passion, through the struggling soul

       Deep-kindled, shows across that sudden blaze

       The object of its rapture, vast of size,

       With fiercer colours and a night of shade? 140

       What, like a storm from their capacious bed

       The sounding seas o'erwhelming, when the might

       Of these eruptions, working from the depth

       Of man's strong apprehension, shakes his frame

       Even to the base; from every naked sense

       Of pain or pleasure, dissipating all

       Opinion's feeble coverings, and the veil

       Spun from the cobweb fashion of the times

       To hide the feeling heart? Then Nature speaks

       Her genuine language, and the words of men, 150

       Big with the very motion of their souls,

       Declare with what accumulated force

       The impetuous nerve of passion urges on

       The native weight and energy of things.

      Yet more: her honours where nor Beauty claims,

       Nor shows of good the thirsty sense allure,

       From passion's power alone [Endnote R] our nature holds

       Essential pleasure. Passion's fierce illapse

       Rouses the mind's whole fabric; with supplies

       Of daily impulse keeps the elastic powers 160

       Intensely poised, and polishes anew

       By that collision all the fine machine:

       Else rust would rise, and foulness, by degrees

       Encumbering, choke at last what heaven design'd

       For ceaseless motion and a round of toil.—

       But say, does every passion thus to man

       Administer delight? That name indeed

       Becomes the rosy breath of love; becomes

       The radiant smiles of joy, the applauding hand

       Of admiration: but the bitter shower 170

       That sorrow sheds upon a brother's grave;

       But the dumb palsy of nocturnal fear,

       Or those consuming fires that gnaw the heart

       Of panting indignation, find we there

       To move delight?—Then listen while my tongue

       The unalter'd will of Heaven with faithful awe

       Reveals; what old Harmodius wont to teach

       My early age; Harmodius, who had weigh'd

       Within his learned mind whate'er the schools

       Of Wisdom, or thy lonely-whispering voice, 180

       O faithful Nature! dictate of the laws

       Which govern and support this mighty frame

       Of universal being. Oft the hours

       From morn to eve have stolen unmark'd away,

       While mute attention hung upon his lips,

       As thus the sage his awful tale began:—

      ''Twas in the windings of an ancient wood,

       When spotless youth with solitude resigns

       To sweet philosophy the studious day,

       What time pale Autumn shades the silent eve, 190

       Musing I roved. Of good and evil much,

       And much of mortal man my thought revolved;

       When starting full on fancy's gushing eye

       The mournful image of Parthenia's fate,

       That hour, O long beloved and long deplored!

       When blooming youth, nor gentlest wisdom's arts,

       Nor Hymen's honours gather'd for thy brow,

       Nor all thy lover's, all thy father's tears

       Avail'd to snatch thee from the cruel grave;

       Thy agonising looks, thy last farewell 200

       Struck to the inmost feeling of my soul

       As with the hand of Death. At once the shade

       More horrid nodded o'er me, and the winds

       With hoarser murmuring shook the branches. Dark

       As midnight storms, the scene of human things

       Appear'd before me; deserts, burning sands,

       Where the parch'd adder dies; the frozen south,

       And desolation blasting all the west

       With rapine and with murder: tyrant power

       Here sits enthroned with blood; the baleful charms 210

       Of superstition there infect the skies,

       And turn the sun to horror. Gracious Heaven!

       What is the life of man? Or cannot these,

       Not these portents thy awful will suffice,

       That, propagated thus beyond their scope,

       They rise to act their cruelties anew

       In my afflicted bosom, thus decreed

       The universal sensitive

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