Here paus'd the Genius! Age bent low its head,
Its hoary tresses floating on the wind;
Oh bright Intelligence! then firmly said,
Permit a mortal to unveil his mind.
Sad is your prophecy, and oh too sure
Fate will its utmost latitude fill up;
Each promis'd ill 'tis fix'd we must endure,
And drink from sorrow's still replenish'd cup; —
But not unmix'd the bitter draught shall flow,
Not unallay'd the hov'ring mis'ries sting,
Felicities shall blunt the sense of woe,
And o'er it, joys their downy mantle fling.
If social evils overspread thy plain,
The social blessings too will haste along,
And on the spot where vice shall lead its train,
Illustrious virtues eagerly shall throng.