XXXVI.

"This praise, O Cheronean sage,[3] is thine! (Why should this praise to thee alone belong?) All else from Nature's moral path decline, Lur'd by the toys that captivate the throng; To herd in cabinets and camps, among Spoil, carnage, and the cruel pomp of pride; Or chant of heraldry the drowsy song, How tyrant blood, o'er many a region wide, Rolls to a thousand thrones its execrable tide.