Page:Vida's Art of Poetry.djvu/79

Deep in his breast the heav'nly tumult plays,
And sets his mounting spirits on a blaze.
Nor can the raging flames themselves contain,
For the whole god descends into the man.
He quits mortality; he knows no bounds;
But sings inspir'd in more than human sounds.
Not from his breast can shake th' immortal load,
But pants and raves impatient of the God;
And rapt beyond himself admires the force
That drives him on reluctant to the course.
He calls on Phœbus by the god opprest,
Who breaths excessive spirit in his breast;
No force of thirst or hunger can controul
The fierce, the ruling transport of his soul.
Oft' in their sleep inflam'd with rage divine,
Some bards enjoy the visions of the nine;
Visions! Themselves with due applause may crown,
Visions ev'n Apollo would not blush to own.
To such a height the god exalts the flame;
And so unbounded is their thirst of fame;
But here, ye youths, exert your timely care,
Nor trust th' ungovernable rage too far;

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