Lacking that element they once thought unkind:

So, were man shorn of passions and of hates,

And nicely pared of what uneven seems,

He’d seem some plaything, jostled by rough fates

Into existence, from poor Fancy’s dreams.

Nature has naught superfluous,—clip her pride,

You mar her beauties, and the man beside.

{67}

{67}

LXVII.

Should one proclaim, what perfect man might be,

What finest tonings of trained passion’s host,

What calm should murmur on a breathless sea,

What childhood’s joy linger around the coast,

How the rare form should tremble to each string

Of the ever-pulsing, passionate, tranquil frame:

His virtues should steal lustre while they bring,

For Beauty sanctifies even Virtue’s name:

’Twere vain, words cannot paint, nor the mind’s maze,

Compose perfections in such various mould:

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