Its easy pleasure, its substantial good;
The happy thought that conscious virtue gives.
And all that ought to live, and all that lives.
But who are these? Methinks, a noble mien
And awful grandeur in their form are seen—
Now in disgrace. What, though by time is spread
Polluting dust o'er every reverend head;
What, though beneath yon gilded tribe they lie,
540
And dull observers pass insulting by: