Thomson and Pollok: containing The seasons, by James Thomson, and The course of time, by Robert Pollok, A. M.

I

BOOK VIII.

371

Yet it, with all its preciousness, was due
To Virtue, and around her should have shed,
Unasked, its savory smell; but Vice, deformed
Itself, and ugly, and of flavor rank,
To rob fair Virtue of so sweet an incense,
And with it to anoint and salve its own
Rotten ulcers, and perfume the path that led
To death,-strove daily by a thousand means:
And oft succeeded to make Virtue sour
In the world's nostrils, and its loathly self
Smell sweetly. Rumor was the messenger
Of defamation, and so swift that none
Could be the first to tell an evil tale;
And was, withal, so infamous for lies,
That he who of her sayings, on his creed,
The fewest entered, was deemed wisest man.
The fool, and many who had credit, too,
For wisdom, grossly swallowed all she said,
Unsifted; and although, at every word,
They heard her contradict herself, and saw,
Hourly, they were imposed upon and mocked,
Yet still they ran to hear her speak, and stared,
And wondered much, and stood aghast, and said
It could not be; and, while they blushed for shame
At their own faith, and seemed to doubt, believed,
And whom they met, with many sanctions, told.
So did experience fail to teach;-so hard
It was to learn this simple truth,-confirmed
At every corner by a thousand proofs,
That common Fame most impudently lied.
'Twas Slander filled her mouth with lying wordsSlander, the foulest whelp of Sin. The man
In whom this spirit entered was undone.
His tongue was set on fire of hell, his heart
Was black as death, his legs were faint with haste

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