LXVII.
Should one proclaim, what perfect man might be,
What finest tonings of trained passion’s host,
What calm should murmur on a breathless sea,
What childhood’s joy linger around the coast,
How the rare form should tremble to each string
Of the ever-pulsing, passionate, tranquil frame:
His virtues should steal lustre while they bring,
For Beauty sanctifies even Virtue’s name:
’Twere vain, words cannot paint, nor the mind’s maze,
Compose perfections in such various mould:
Create the hero, and the world shall gaze,
Not unobservant, nor profanely cold.
Vain is the juggle of consenting phrase,
Nature is just, and claims the larger praise.