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Poem by Mark Akenside


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. 

Mark Akenside

Mark Akenside's other poems:
  1. Ode 4. To a Gentleman whose Mistress had married an Old Man
  2. The Virtuoso; in imitation of Spencer's Style and Stanza
  3. On Lyric Poetry
  4. Ode 9. To Sleep
  5. To The Honourable Charles Townshend: From The Country

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