It is not from his form, in which we trace
Strength joined with beauty, dignity with grace,
That man, the master of this globe, derives
His right of empire over all that lives.
That form indeed, the affociate of a mind
Vaft in its powers, ethereal in its kind,
That form, the labour of almighty skill,
Framed for the service of a free-born will,
Afferts precedence, and bespeaks control,
But borrows all its grandeur from the soul.
Hers is the ftate, the splendour, and the throne,
An intellectual kingdom, all her own.
For her the memory fills her ample page
With truths poured down from every diftant age; For her amaffes an unbounded store,
The wisdom of great nations, now no more;