Page:Vida's Art of Poetry.djvu/104

 Nor would I scruple, with a due regard, To read sometimes a rude unpolish'd bard. Among whose labors I may find a line, Which from unsightly rust I may refine, And, with a better grace, adopt it into mine. How often may we see a troubled flood, Stain'd with unsettled ooze, and rising mud? Which, (if a well the bord'ring natives sink) Supplies the thirsty multitude with drink. The trickling stream by just degrees refines, 'Till in its course the limpid current shines; And taught thro' secret labyrinths to flow, Works itself clear among the sands below. For nothing looks so gloomy, but will shine From proper care, and timely discipline; If, with due vigilance and conduct, wrought Deep in the soul, it labours in the thought. Hence on the antientsancients [sic] we must rest alone, And make their golden sentences our own. To cull their best expressions claims our cares, To form our notions, and our styles on theirs. See