Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind,

Though now it moved him as it moves the wise;

Not that Philosophy on such a mind

E'er deigned to bend her chastely-awful eyes:

But Passion raves herself[97] to rest, or flies;

And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb,

Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise:[dh]

Pleasure's palled Victim! life-abhorring Gloom

Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting doom.[98]