21
If with no vulgar flight thou mean to soar
To heights of glory none have reach'd before,
To ravish kingdoms with thy promis'd strain,
While Censure rails and Envy pines in vain;
This is the secret, this the art sublime,
Ye Minstrels hear me—novels penn'd in rhyme[1].
Who, midst a hero's dying groans, inquires
If Art adorns the lay, or Wit inspires?
What heart, o'erpow'r'd with weeping Beauty's woe,
Can coldly question how the numbers flow?
In soft repose, th' unconscious Judgment sleeps,
While Wonder gazes, or while Pity weeps.
E'en those, whose rough and barb'rous natures long
Despis'd the Muse, and spurn'd her sweetest song,
To heights of glory none have reach'd before,
To ravish kingdoms with thy promis'd strain,
While Censure rails and Envy pines in vain;
This is the secret, this the art sublime,
Ye Minstrels hear me—novels penn'd in rhyme[1].
Who, midst a hero's dying groans, inquires
If Art adorns the lay, or Wit inspires?
What heart, o'erpow'r'd with weeping Beauty's woe,
Can coldly question how the numbers flow?
In soft repose, th' unconscious Judgment sleeps,
While Wonder gazes, or while Pity weeps.
E'en those, whose rough and barb'rous natures long
Despis'd the Muse, and spurn'd her sweetest song,
- ↑ All the most popular poems of the day.
