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 * , young bard, and listen while I sing;

Lo! I unlock the muse's sacred spring, Lo! Phœbus calls thee to his inmost shrine; Hark! in one common voice, the tuneful nine Invite and court thee to the rites divine. When first to man the privilege was giv'n, To hold by verse an intercourse with heav'n, Unwilling that th' immortal art should lye, Cheap, and exposed to ev'ry vulgar eye, Great Jove, to drive away the grov'ling crowd, To narrow bounds confin'd the glorious road, Which more exalted spirits to pursue, And left it open to the sacred few. For many a painful task, in ev'ry part, Claims all the poet's vigilance and art. 'Tis not enough his verses to compleat, In measure, numbers, or determin'd feet; Or render things, by clear expression, bright, And set each object in a proper light. To all, proportion'd terms he must dispense, And make the sound a picture of the sense; The