When Science’ self destroy’d her favourite son!
Yes, she too much indulged his fond pursuit,
She sow’d the seeds, but death has reap’d the fruit.
’Twas his own genius gave the final blow,
And help’d to plant the wound that laid him low:
So the struck eagle, stretch’d upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
View’d his own feather on the fatal dart,
And wing’d the shaft that quiver’d in his heart;
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel