Chapter IV

Far from your busy crowded court,
Tranquillity makes her report;
Where 'mid cold Staffa's columns rude,
Resides majestic solitude;
Or where in some sad Brachman's cell,
Meek innocence delights to dwell,
Weeping with unexperienc'd eye,
The death of a departed fly:
Or in _Hetruria_'s heights sublime,
Where science self might fear to climb,
But that she seeks a smile from thee,
And wooes thy praise, SOCIETY.