Page:Poems - Southey (1799) volume 1.djvu/213

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Crusading for mankind—a spaniel raceThat lick the hand that beats them, or tear allAlike in frenzy—to your Household GodsReturn, for by their altars Virtue dwellsAnd Happiness with her; for by their firesTranquillity in no unsocial moodSits silent, listening to the pattering shower;For, so [1]Suspicion sleep not at the gateOf Wisdom,—Falsehood shall not enter there.As on the height of some huge eminenceReach'd with long labour, the way-faring manPauses awhile, and gazing o'er the plainWith many a sore step travelled, turns him thenSerious to contemplate the onward road,And calls to mind the comforts of his home,And sighs that he has left them, and resolves
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    Oft, tho' Wisdom wake, Suspicion sleepsAt Wisdom's gate, and to SimplicityResigns her charge, while Goodness thinks no illWhere no ill seems.Milton.
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