Artist, Whose Hand, With Horror Wing'D, Hath Torn From The Rank Life Of Towns This Leaf: And Flung The Prodigy Of Full-Blown Crime Among Valleys And Men To Middle Fortune Born, Not Innocent, Indeed, Yet Not Forlorn: Say, What Shall Calm Us, When Such Guests Intrude, Like Comets On The Heavenly Solitude? Shall Breathless Glades, Cheer'D By Shy Dian'S Horn. Cold-Bubbling Springs, Or Caves? Not So! The Soul Breasts Her Own Griefs: And, Urg'D Too Fiercely, Says: 'Why Tremble? True, The Nobleness Of Man May Be By Man Effac'D: Man Can Control To Pain, To Death, The Bent Of His Own Days. Know Thou The Worst. So Much, Not More, He Can.