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VI. To thy unvarying harmony: the slave, Whose horrible lusts spread misery o'er the world, And the good man, who lifts, with virtuous pride, His being, in the sight of happiness, That springs from his own works; the poison-tree, Beneath whose shade all life is withered up, And the fair oak, whose leafy dome affords A temple where the vows of happy love Are registered, are equal in thy sight: No love, no hate thou cherishest; revenge And favoritism, and worst desire of fame Thou knowest not: all that the wide world contains Are but thy passive instruments, and thou Regardst them all with an impartial eye, Whose joy or pain thy nature cannot feel,
 * Because thou hast not human sense,
 * Because thou art not human mind.


 * Yes! when the sweeping storm of time

Has sung its death-dirge o'er the ruined fanes And broken altars of the almighty fiend, Whose name usurps thy honours, and the blood Through centuries clotted there, has floated down The tainted flood of ages, shalt thou live Unchangeable! A shrine is raised to thee,
 * Which, nor the tempest-breath of time,
 * Nor the interminable flood,
 * Over earth's slight pageant rolling,
 * Availeth to destroy,—

The sensitive extension of the world.