Page:Vida's Art of Poetry.djvu/118

When things are small, the terms should still be so,
For low words please us, when the theme is low.
But when some giant, horrible and grim,
Enormous in his gait, and vast in ev'ry limb,
Stalks tow'ring on; the swelling words must rise
In just proportion to the monster's size;
If some large weight his huge arms strive to shove,
The verse too labors; the thronged words scarce move.
When each stiff clod beneath the pond'rous plough,
Crumbles and breaks; th' encumber'd lines march slow.
Nor less; when pilots catch the friendly gales,
Unfurl their shrowds, and hoist the wide-stretch't sails.
But if the poem suffers from delay,
Let the lines fly precipitate away.
And when the viper issues from the brake;$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$
Be quick; with stones, and brands, and fire, attack
His rising crest, and drive the serpent back.
When night descends; or, stun'd by num'rous strokes,
And groaning, to the earth drops the vast ox;
The line too sinks with correspondent sound,
Flat with the steer, and headlong to the ground.

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