LXVII.
Reading edition
Should one proclaim, what perfect man might be, What finest tonings of trained passion’s host, What calm should murmur on a breathless sea, What childhood’s joy linger around the coast, How the rare form should tremble to each string Of the ever-pulsing, passionate, tranquil frame: His virtues should steal lustre while they bring, For Beauty sanctifies even Virtue’s name: ’Twere vain, words cannot paint, nor the mind’s maze, Compose perfections in such various mould: Create the hero, and the world shall gaze, Not unobservant, nor profanely cold. Vain is the juggle of consenting phrase, Nature is just, and claims the larger praise.