Age And Want Sit Smiling At The

Of Darkness Visible So Much Be Lent, As Half To Show, Half Veil, The Deep Intent.

Fix'd Like A Plant On His Peculiar Spot, To Draw Nutrition, Propagate And Rot.

Speed The Soft Intercourse From Soul To Soul, And Waft A Sigh From Indus To The Pole.

Whether The Charmer Sinner It, Or Saint It, If Folly Grow Romantic, I Must Paint It.

Know Then, Unnumber'd Spirits Round Thee Fly, The Light Militia Of The Lower Sky.