When strikes us every motive that can melt;
When man can wreak his rancour uncontroll’d,
That strongest curb on insult and ill-will;
Then, spleen to dust? the dust of innocence? 200
An angel’s dust?—This Lucifer transcends;
When he contended for the patriarch’s bones,
’Twas not the strife of malice, but of pride;
The strife of pontiff pride, not pontiff gall.
Far less than this is shocking in a race
Most wretched, but from streams of mutual love;