What, then, is taste but those internal powers,
Active and strong, and feeling alive
To each fine impulse? a discerning sense
Of decent and sublime, with quick disgust
From things deformed, or disarranged and gross
In species. This nor gems nor stores of gold,
Nor purple state nor culture can bestow;
But God alone, when first His active hand
Imprints the secret bias of the soul.
More verses by Mark Akenside
- The Pleasures Of Imagination: Book The First
- Ode X: To Thomas Edwards, Esquire: On The Late Edition Of Mr. Pope's Work
- Ode Xiii: To The Author Of Memoirs Of The House Of Brandenburgh
- Ode Xiv: To The Honourable Charles Townshend: From The Country
- Ode Xii: On Recovering From A Fit Of Sickness, In The Country