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Of Knowledge, ere the vernal sap had risen,
Rudely disbranch'd! O blest Society!285
Fitliest depictur'd by some sun-scorcht waste,
Where oft majestic thro' the tainted noon
The Simoom fails, before whose purple pomp
Who falls not prostrate dies! And where, by night,
Fast by each precious fountain on green herbs 290
The lion couches; or hyæna dips
Deep in the lucid stream his bloody jaws;
Or serpent rolls his vast moon-glittering bulk,
Caught in whose monstrous twine Behemoth yells,
His bones loud crashing!295
O ye numberless,
Whom foul Oppression's ruffian gluttony
Drives from life's plenteous feast! O thou poor Wretch,
