Page:Vida's Art of Poetry.djvu/40

Now let him softly to himself rehearse
His first attempts and rudiments of verse;
Fix on those rich expressions his regard
To use made sacred by some antient bard;
Tost by a different gust of hopes and fears,
He begs of heav'n an hundred eyes and ears.
Now here, now there coy nature he pursues,
And takes one image in a thousand views.
He waits the happy minute that affords
The noblest thoughts, and most expressive words.
He brooks no dull delay; admits no rest;
A tide of passions struggles in his breast;
Round his dark soul no clear ideas play,
The most familiar objects glide away.
All fixt in thought, astonisht he appears,
His soul examines and consults his ears;
And racks his faithless memory, to find
Some traces faintly sketch'd upon his mind.
There he unlocks the glorious magazine,
And opens every faculty within;
Brings out with pride their intellectual spoils,
And with the noble treasure crowns his toils;

And