Page:Vida's Art of Poetry.djvu/117

 When on the groves and fields the deluge preys, And wraps the crackling stubble in the blaze. Nor less our pleasure; when the flame divides, And climbs aspiring round the cauldron's sides; From the dark bottom work the waters up, Swell, boil, and hiss, and bubble to the top. Thus in smooth lines, smooth subjects we rehearse, But the rough rock requires as rough a verse. If gay the subject, gay must be the song; And the brisk numbers quickly glide along: When the fields flourish; or the skies unfold Swift from the flying hinge their gates of gold. If sad the theme, then each grave line moves slow, The mournful numbers languishingly flow, And drag, and labour, with a weight of woe; If e'er the boding bird of night, who mourns O'er ruins, desolation, graves, and urns, With piercing streams the darkness should invade, And break the silence of the dismal shade. When