Art thou ashamed to bend thy knee to heaven?
Cursed fume of pride, exhaled from deepest hell!
Pride in religion is man’s highest praise.
Bent on destruction! and in love with death!
Not all these luminaries, quench’d at once,
Were half so sad, as one benighted mind, 1976
Which gropes for happiness, and meets despair.
How, like a widow in her weeds, the Night,
Amid her glimmering tapers, silent sits!
How sorrowful, how desolate, she weeps