These are thy glorious works, eternal truth, The scoff of withered age and beardless youth; These move the censure and illiberal grin Of fools, that hate thee and delight in sin: But these shall last when night has quenched the pole, And heaven is all departed as a scroll. And when, as justice has long since decreed, That hope, which can alone exclude despair, Happy the bard, (if that fair name belong And fruit reward his honourable toil: But happier far, who comfort those, that wait |