Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/407

Rh That Strained Invention, ever on the wing,

Alone impels the modern Bard to sing:

'Tis true, that all who rhyme—nay, all who write,

Shrink from that fatal word to Genius—Trite;

Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires,

And decorate the verse herself inspires:

This fact in Virtue's name let attest;

Though Nature's sternest Painter, yet the best.

And here let and Genius find a place,

Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace;

To guide whose hand the sister Arts combine,

And trace the Poet's or the Painter's line;

Whose magic touch can bid the canvas glow,

Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow;

While honours, doubly merited, attend

The Poet's rival, but the Painter's friend.

Blest is the man who dares approach the bower

Where dwelt the Muses at their natal hour;