That grate the soul of harmony,
Each pedant sage unlocks his store
Of mystic, dark, discordant lore;
And points with tottering hand the ways 55
That lead me to the thorny maze.
There, in a winding close retreat,
Is Justice doomed to fix her seat;
There fenced by bulwarks of the law,
She keeps the wondering world in awe; 60
And there, from vulgar sight retired,