The feast of reason and the flow of soul;
I must be cruel only to be kind,
And waft a sigh from Indus to the pole.
Syphax! I joy to meet thee thus alone,
Where’er I roam, whatever lands I see;
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown,
In maiden meditation, fancy free.
Farewell! and wheresoe’er thy voice be tried,
Why to yon mountain turns the gazing eye?
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,