But with surprize he saw the stores decay,
And all the long-fought treasures melt away;
In winding dreams the liquid metal roll'd,
And through the palace ran a flood of gold.
[1]Next to the shrine advanc'd a reverend sage
Whose beard was hoary with the frost of age;
His few gray locks a fable fillet bound,
And his dark mantle flow'd along the ground:
Grave was his port, yet show'd a bold neglect,
And fill'd the young beholder with respect;
Time's envious hand had plough'd his wrinkled face,
Yet on those wrinkles sat superiour grace;
Still full of fire appear'd his vivid eye,
Darted quick beams, and seem'd to pierce the sky,
At length, with gentle voice and look serene,
He wav'd his hand, and thus address'd the queen:
"Twice forty winters tip my beard with snow,
"And age's chilling gulls around me blow:
"In early youth, by contemplation led,
"With high pursuits my flatter'd thoughts were fed;
- ↑ Knowledge.
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