Unconscious of his strength, to play the coward,
And flee before a feeble thing like man;
That, knowing well the slackness of his arm,
Trusts only in the well-invented knife?

ith study pale, and midnight vigils spent,
car-surveying sage close to his eye
es the sight-invigorating tube;

trav'lling through the boundless length of

space,

is well the courses of the far-seen orbs,
t roll with regular confusion there,

cstasy of thought. But ah! proud man!
at heights are hazardous to the weak head:
n, very soon, thy firmest footing fails,

1 down thou dropp'st into that darksome place
nere nor device nor knowledge ever came.

Here the tongue-warrior lies! disabled now, isarm'd, dishonour'd, like a wretch

gagg'd,

And cannot tell his ails to passers-by!

that's

Great man of language! whence this mighty

change,

This dumb despair, and drooping of the head?
Though strong Persuasion hung upon thy lip,

And sly Insinuation's softer arts

In ambush lay about thy flowing tongue,

The Counseller, King, Warrior Mother & Child, in the Tomb

Unconscious of his strength, to play the coward,
And flee before a feeble thing like man;
That, knowing well the slackness of his arm,
Trusts only in the well-invented knife?

With study pale, and midnight vigils spent, The star-surveying sage close to his eye Applies the sight-invigorating tube;

And, trav'lling through the boundless length of

space,

Marks well the courses of the far-seen orbs,
That roll with regular confusion there,

In ecstasy of thought. But ah! proud man!
Great heights are hazardous to the weak head:
Soon, very soon, thy firmest footing fails,

And down thou dropp'st into that darksome place
Where nor device nor knowledge ever came.

Here the tongue-warrior lies! disabled now, Disarm'd, dishonour'd, like a wretch

gagg'd,

And cannot tell his ails to passers-by!

that's

Great man of language! whence this mighty change,

This dumb despair, and drooping of the head?
Though strong Persuasion hung upon thy lip,

And sly Insinuation's softer arts

In ambush lay about thy flowing tongue,

Alas, how chop-fall'n now! thick mists and
silence

Rest, like a weary cloud, upon thy breast
Unceasing. Ah! where is the lifted arm,
The strength of action, and the force of words,
The well-turn'd period, and the well-tun'd
voice,

With all the lesser ornaments of phrase?

Ah! fled for ever, as they ne'er had been!
Raz'd from the book of fame; or, more pro-

voking,

Perchance some hackney hunger-bitten scribbler
Insults thy memory, and blots thy tomb
With long flat narrative, or duller rhimes,
With heavy halting pace that drawl along—
Enough to rouse a dead man into rage,

And warm, with red resentment, the wan cheek!

Here the great masters of the healing art,
These mighty mock-defrauders of the tomb,
Spite of their juleps and catholicons,
Resign to fate! Proud Esculapius' son,
Where are thy boasted implements of art,

And all thy well-cramm'd magazines of health?
Nor hill, nor vale, as far as ship could go,
Nor margin of the gravel-bottom'd brook,
Escap'd thy rifling hand! From stubborn

shrubs

Thou wrung'st their shy retiring virtues out,