This duty teaches to the human breast,
And virtue bids us still her fires relume;
Nor waste the flame, unblessing and unblest,
As lamps that glimmer in sepulchral gloom.
Who hides those talents bounteous heav'n bestow'd
In lone retreat, perverts great nature's plan,
The path of duty is the social road,
The sphere for action is the sphere for man.
MOSCHUS.
TO HYMEN.
God of the torch, whose soul-illuming flame
Beams brightest radiance o'er the human heart;
Of every woe the cure,
Of every joy the source;
To thee I sing: if haply may the muse
Pour forth the song unblam'd from these dull haunts,
Where never beams thy torch
To cheer the sullen scene;
From these dull haunts, where monkish science holds,
In sullen gloom her solitary reign;
And spurns the reign of love,
And spurns thy genial sway.
God of the ruddy cheek and beaming eye,
Whose soft sweet gaze thrills thro' the bounding heart,
With no unholy joy
I pour the lay to thee.
I pour the lay to thee, though haply doom'd
In solitary woe to waste my years;
Though doom'd perchance to die
Unlov'd and unbewail'd.