The poison well’d from Circe’s treacherous cups
Beyond the shape, with fell designment, work’d;
Had thought not pander’d to nectareous sups,
And, brute-like, veiled what beastly semblance lurk’d,
Sure change had mock’d his aim, by death and spleen.
’Tis bounteous Nature smoothes the wrinkled brow,
Bellying with pride the front that looks too lean:
She plants conceit in gaping brains enow;
She salves with flattery some unequal wounds,
Impartial measures grief for men and years;
One age inglorious slumbers on and swounds;
One moistens deathless leaves with blood and tears:
All drink, and die, but oh! how deep a draught,
E’er separate life’s a blessing, must be quafft.

The rivulets, the earth, the skies, the motion
Whose substance varies to a higher change,
The clouds, the woods, the mountains, and the ocean
Whose endless blue defies the fancy’s range,
The sun, and the calm host that guide the night
Throughout the seasons of the changeful year,
The warmth, the snow, the music, and the bright
Foliage that quivers to the songsters’ cheer;
And the swift thought that wings its measureless way
(Though clogg’d with self, it feels but how it fails,)
Just to the confines of eternal day,
In outer orbit whirl’d it pines, and sails;
And more than these, Love, Beauty, Reason, Joy.
All these are life, but self’s a half-formed toy.