Stuck in a corner of the universe,
Wrapt up in fleecy cloud, and fine-spun air? 140
Fine-spun to sense; but gross and feculent
To souls celestial; souls ordain’d to breathe
Ambrosial gales, and drink a purer sky;
Greatly triumphant on Time’s farther shore,
Where Virtue reigns, enrich’d with full arrears;
While Pomp imperial begs an alms of peace.
In empire high, or in proud science deep,
Ye born of earth! on what can you confer,