His admiration waste on objects round,
When Heaven makes him the soul of all he sees? 440
Absurd! not rare! so great, so mean, is man.
What wealth in senses such as these! What wealth
In Fancy, fired to form a fairer scene
Than Sense surveys! In memory’s firm record,
Which, should it perish, could this world recall
From the dark shadows of o’erwhelming years!
In colours fresh, originally bright,
Preserve its portrait, and report its fate!