Thy cheek to cinder!) rival to the brutes!
Young.
These are the haunts of meditation, these
The scenes where ancient bards the inspiring breath,
Ecstatic felt: and, from this world retired,
Conversed with angels, and immortal forms,
On gracious errands bent: to save the fall
Of virtue, struggling on the brink of vice;
In waking whispers, and repeated dreams;
To hint pure thought, and warn the favoured soul,