That charm’d the fire, Promethean, from its mud:

Who topple on a pinnacle, scorn the steps

That usher to the pride, whereon they stand;

Yet Nature’s structure swerves not, men, adepts

At self-deception, judge from whence they’ve scann’d;

View the whole plot, and just should all appear,

What’s beauteous, the relief that Nature wears,

The base, by difficult straits and shoals, should steer

To quicken praise, shunning monotonous cares:

What fail’d of high fulfilment, where it lack’d,

Should live in others’ worth when all were pack’d.

{59}

{59}

LIX.

Thy voice still cautioned, ’tis no time for woe,

Nor only warned, but marked out safety’s road;

Who crams his yearning heart with earthly show,

Straight to be voided, fondles with the goad;

Who nods to Passion, as he gulps the chaff

That whitens the base highway of the world,

 Prev. P 50/118 next