To find the being, which alone can know
And praise his works, a blemish on his praise?
Through nature’s ample range, in thought, to stroll, 700
And start at man, the single mourner there,
Breathing high hope, chain’d down to pangs, and death?
Knowing is suffering: and shall Virtue share
The sigh of knowledge?—Virtue shares the sigh.
By straining up the steep of excellent,
By battles fought, and, from temptation won,
What gains she, but the pang of seeing worth, 707