Through dread of worse; to cling to this rude rock,
Barren, to them, of good, and sharp with ills,
And hourly blacken’d with impending storms,
And infamous for wrecks of human hope—
Scared at the gloomy gulf, that yawns beneath,
Such are their triumphs! such their pangs of joy! 362
’Tis time, high time, to shift this dismal scene.
This hugg’d, this hideous state, what art can cure?
One only; but that one, what all may reach;
Virtue—she, wonder-working goddess! charms