The World And The Quietist

Why, when the Worlds great mind     Hath finally inclind,     Why, you say, Critias, be debating still?     Why, with these mournful rhymes     Learnd in more languid climes,     Blame our activity,     Who, with such passionate will,     Are, what we mean to be?     Critias, long since, I know,     (For Fate decreed it so,)     Long since the World hath set its heart to live.     Long since with credulous zeal     It turns Lifes mighty wheel;     Still doth for labourers send,     Who still their labour give;     And still expects an end.     Yet, as the wheel flies round,     With no ungrateful sound     Do adverse voices fall on the Worlds ear.     Deafend by his own stir     The rugged Labourer     Caught not till then a sense     So glowing and so near     Of his omnipotence.     So, when the feast grew loud     In Susas palace proud,     A white-robd slave stole to the Monarchs side.     He spoke: the Monarch heard:     Felt the slow-rolling word     Swell his attentive soul.     Breathd deeply as it died,     And draind his mighty bowl.