But, lo! the Portrait of yon hoary sage

From whose grave lore I learnt in youth

Many a rigid moral truth,

Frowns me again to cold unfeeling age---

How are the soft emotions checkt

180 While tow’rd me he seems to direct,

As if alive, his conscious eye;

At whose austere reproving glance,

I wake reluctant from my trance,

And feel with pain each pleasing passion die!---