III. 1.
Is it not virtue to repine,
When thus transform'd the scene?
“Ah! no,” replied, in strain divine,
The heaven-descending Queen.
And, as she sung, she shot a ray,
Mild as the orient dawn of May,
Enlight'ning while it calm'd my brain:
“Now purg'd, my Son! from error, own
“My blessings ne'er were meant to crown
“The vicious, or the vain.
III. 2.
“'Tis only those of purer clay
“From sensual dross refined,
“In whom the passions pleas'd obey
“The God within the mind,
“Who share my delegated aid,
“Through Wisdom's golden mean convey'd
“From the first source of sov'reign good:
“All else to horrid license tends,
“Springs from vindictive pride, and ends
“In anarchy and blood.
III. 3.
“Had France possess'd a sober patriot band,
“True to their own, and nation's weal,
“Such as, fair Albion, bless'd thy favour'd land,
“When Nassau came thy rights to seal;
“She might—but why compare such wide extremes,
“Why seek for reason in delirious dreams?
“Rather consign to exile and to shame
“Her coward princes, her luxurious peers,
“Who fed the hell-born hydra with their fears,
“That now usurps my hallow'd name.”