With virtue? which of nature's regions vast
Can in so many forms produce to sight
Such powerful beauty?—Beauty, which the eye
Of hatred cannot look upon secure;
Which Envy's self contemplates, and is turn'd
Ere long to tenderness, to infant smiles,
Or tears of humblest love. Is ought so fair,
In all the dewy landscapes of the Spring,
The Summer's noontide groves, the purple eve
At harvest-home, or in the frosty moon