Thought’s mingled hues can separate, dark from bright,
Like the fine lens that sifts the solar light;
Then recompose again th’ harmonious rays,
And pour them powerful in collected blaze—
Wakening, where’er they glance, creations new,
In beauty steeped, nor less to nature true;
With eloquence that hurls from reason’s throne
A voice of might, or pleads in pity’s tone:
To agitate, to melt, to win, to soothe,
Yet kindling ever on the side of truth;