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—Not for a happy Land do I enquire,
Island or Grove, that hides a blessed few
Who, with obedience willing and sincere,
To your serene authorities conform;
But whom I ask, of individual Souls,
Have ye withdrawn from Passion's crooked ways,
Inspired, and thoroughly fortified?—If the Heart
Could be inspected to its inmost folds
By sight undazzled with the glare of praise,
Who shall be named—in the resplendent line
Of Sages, Martyrs, Confessors—the Man
Whom the best might of Conscience, Truth, and Hope,
For one day's little compass, have preserved
From painful and discreditable shocks
Of contradiction, from some vague desire
Culpably cherished, or corrupt relapse
To some unsanctioned fear?"
"If this be so,
And Man," said I, "be in his noblest shape
Thus pitiably infirm; then, He who made,
And who shall judge the Creature, will forgive.
—Yet, in its general tenor, your complaint
