(seq. 17)

11

Art in perfection, simple & profuse,

Joy to the world, & pleasures fit for use:

From this immensity I turn mine eyes,

Intent on wonder, arts and sciences;

Suspence detain'd my faint resolves awhile,

Nor knew to what inclind amidst the smile,

Of natures bloom, or philosphic art,

That softens down the man & warms the heart;

Determinate resolves, mature and strong.

Firm fix my mind to glut the jaring throng

Where saws & hammers dull the listning ear,

With horrid discord rambling far & near;

Where plows and harrows raise the dusty cloud

Where flies the vapid stench of strangling heat,

On wings aerial & in progress fleet;

To shun the countless instruments of toil,

That torture earth, or cultivate the soil,

A task more delicate I ponderd o'er,

Then chose the profferd boon, O! happy hour

On which I hug'd the paragon of time,

The festival of thot, of thot sublime,