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When thou would'st build; no quarry sent its stores T'enrich thy walls : but thou didst hew the floods, And make thy marble of the glassy wave. In such a palace Ariftæus found Cyrene, when he bcre the plaintive tale Of his lost bees to her maternal ear : In such a palace poetry might place The armoury of winter ; where his troops, The gloomy clouds, find weapons, arrowy fleet, Skin-piercing volley, blossom-bruising hail, And snow that often blinds the tray'ller's course, And wraps him in an unexpected tomb. Silently as a dream the fabric rose ; No found of hammer or of faw was there. Ice upon ice, the well-adjusted parts Were foon conjoin'd, nor other cement ask'd Than water interfus'd to make them one. Lamps gracefully dispos'd, and of all hues, Illumin'd ev'ry side: a wat’ry lighe Gleam'd through the clear transparency, that seem'd
Another moon new risen; or meteor fall'n
Convivial table and commodious feat
(What seem'd at least commodious seat) were there,
On human grandeur and the courts of kings.
Great princes have great playthings. Some have play'd At hewing mountains into men, and some At building human wonders mountain-high, Some have amus'd the dull, fad years of life, Life spent in indolence, and therefore fad, With fchemes of monumental fame ; and fought By pyramids and mausolæan pomp, Short-liv'd themselves, t' immoralize their bones, Some seek diversion in the tented field, And make the sorrows of mankind their sport. But war's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at. Nations would do well T'extort their truncheons from the puny hands Of heroes, whose infirm and baby minds
Are gratified with mischief; and who spoil,
When Babel was confounded, and the great Confed'racy of projectors wild and vain Was split into diversity of tongues, Then, as a shepherd separates his flock, These to the upland, to the valley those, God drave asunder, and assign’d their lot To all the nations. Ample was the boon He gave them, in its distribution fair And equal, and he bade them dwell in peace. Peace was awhile their care: they plough'd and sow'd, And reap'd their plenty without grudge or strife. But violence can never longer sleep Than human passions please. In ev'ry heart Are fown the sparks that kindle fiery war ; Occasion needs but fan them, and they blaze. Cain had already shed a brother's blood : The deluge walh'd it out ; but left unquench'd
The feeds of murder in the breast of man.
Soon, by a righteous judgment, in the line
And the first smith was the first murd'rer's son.
His art surviv'd the waters; and ere long,