Here the slave
Who droops abash'd when sullen Pomp surveys
His humbler habit; here the trembling wretch
Unnerved and struck with Terror's icy bolts,
Spent in weak wailings, drown'd in shameful tears,
At every dream of danger: here, subdued 220
By frontless laughter and the hardy scorn
Of old, unfeeling vice, the abject soul,
Who, blushing, half resigns the candid praise
Of Temperance and Honour; half disowns
A freeman's hatred of tyrannic pride;
And hears with sickly smiles the venal mouth
With foulest licence mock the patriot's name.
Last of the motley bands [Endnote EE] on whom the power
Of gay Derision bends her hostile aim,
Is that where shameful Ignorance presides. 230
Beneath her sordid banners, lo! they march
Like blind and lame. Whate'er their doubtful hands
Attempt, Confusion straight appears behind,
And troubles all the work. Through many a maze,
Perplex'd they struggle, changing every path,
O'erturning every purpose; then at last
Sit down dismay'd, and leave the entangled scene
For Scorn to sport with. Such then is the abode
Of Folly in the mind; and such the shapes
In which she governs her obsequious train.
Pages:
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107