Nations grow corrupt, love bondage more than liberty; bondage with ease than strenuous liberty.
Now conscience wakes despair That slumber’d,-wakes the bitter memory Of what he was, what is, and what must be Worse.
Seasoned life of man preserved and stored up in books.
And on the Tree of Life, The middle tree and highest there that grew, Sat like a cormorant.
But oh! as to embrace me she inclin’d, I wak’d, she fled, and day brought back my night.
For other things mild Heav’n a time ordains, And disapproves that care, though wise in show, That with superfluous burden loads the day, And when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
Hide me from day’s garish eye.
O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse Without all hope of day!
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky.
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing Such notes as, warbled to the string, Drew iron tears down Pluto’s cheek.
They are the troublers, they are the dividers of unity, who neglect and don’t permit others to unite those dissevered pieces which are yet wanting to the body of Truth.
Th’invention all admir’d, and each, how he to be th’inventor miss’d; so easy it seem’d once found, which yet unfound most would have thought impossible.
Chaos umpire sits And by decision more embroils the fray by which he reigns: next him high arbiter Chance governs all.
That power Which erring men call Chance.
The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it, But in another country, as he said, Bore a bright golden flow’r, but not in this soil; Unknown, and like esteem’d, and the dull swain Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon.
These are thy glorious works, Parent of good!
Tower’d cities please us then, And the busy hum of men.
Must I thus leave thee, Paradise?-thus leave Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades?
Arms on armour clashing bray’d Horrible discord, and the madding wheels Of brazen chariots rag’d: dire was the noise Of conflict.