Epigram XXV

Who reared this labyrinth of doubt,
This leaguered town of reel and rout,
This house of scandal? who hath sown
These fields where noisome weeds spring up alone?

This wizard's basket who hath stored
With all the conjurer's magic hoard
Of vain illusions? — and the soul
But looking once forgets her blissful goal.

This barrier in the heavenly path,
This gateway to the pit of wrath,
Who made her then? what hand perverse
Her moulded, man's inevitable curse?