Pall on her temper, like a twice-told tale

O'er yonder eastern hill the twilight pale Walks forth from darkness; and the God of day, With bright Astraea seated by his side, Waits yet to leave the ocean.

Can art, alas! or genius guide the head Where truth and freedom from the heart are fled? Can lesser wheels repeat their native stroke, When the prime function of the soul is broke?

Youth calls for Pleasure, Pleasure calls for Love.

Seeks painted trifles and fantastic toys, And eagerly pursues imaginary joys.

The man forget not, though in rags he lies, And know the mortal through a crown's disguise.

Man loves knowledge, and the beams of truth More welcome touch his understanding's eye Than all the blandishments of sound his ear, Than all of taste his tongue.