Nor ought Pomona's luscious Gifts avail:The Sound harmonious; or the spicy Gale.See'st thou those Rocks in dreadful Pomp arise,And barren Cliffs that sweep the vaulted Skies?Those Fields whence Phoebus all their Moisture drains,And, too profusely kind, disrobes the Plains?When I vouchsafe to tread the lonely Soil,Those Rocks seem lovely, and those Desarts smile;Oft' on those pathless Wilds as I appear,(With Converse sweet his lonely Steps to chear)Those Cliffs the Exile has with Pleasure view'd,And call'd that Desart, "Blissful Solitude!Known by its airy Height and tow'ring Spires,Behind that Scene Fame's lofty Dome retires.Steep the Ascent by which to Fame we rise,Yet equal to the Labour is the Prize:From thence you gain an earthly Crown; from thence—you reach the Skies.Far, far below the downy Throne is seenThat lulls to Rest Ignavia's softer Queen:0