'This praise, O Cheronean Sage, is thine.
'(Why should this praise to thee alone belong!)
'All else from Nature's moral path decline,
'Lured by the toys that captivate the throng;
'To herd in cabinets and camps, among
'Spoil, carnage, and the cruel pomp of pride;
'Or chaunt of heraldry the drowsy song,
'How tyrant blood, o'er many a region wide,
'Rolls to a thousand thrones its execrable tide.