IV.

Hence is that secret pardon we bestow In the true instinct of the grateful heart, Upon the Sons of Song. The good they do In the clear world of their Uranian art Endures for ever; while the evil done In the poor drama of their mortal scene, Is but a passing cloud before the sun; Space hath no record where the mist hath been. Boots it to us, if Shakspeare err'd like man? Why idly question that most mystic life? Eno' the giver in his gifts to scan; To bless the sheaves with which thy fields are rife, Nor, blundering, guess through what obstructive clay The glorious corn-seed struggled up to day.