Next to the seats, well stored with works divine,
An ample space,  is thine;
Our reason's guide, by whose assisting light
We trace the moral bounds of wrong and right;
Our guide through nature, from the sterile clay,
To the bright orbs of yon celestial way!
'T is thine, the great, the golden chain to trace,
Which runs through all, connecting race with race.
Save where those puzzling, stubborn links remain,
Which thy inferior light pursues in vain: —