Herself in her sublimest attitude:
And till she doth, I fain must be content
To share her beauty and her banishment.
XXIII.
Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader! yours)
Was left upon his way to the chief city
Of the immortal Peter's polished boors,
Who still have shown themselves more brave than witty.
I know its mighty Empire now allures
Much flattery—even Voltaire's,[495] and that's a pity.