Page:Vida's Art of Poetry.djvu/40

 Now let him softly to himself rehearse His first attempts and rudiments of verse; Fix on those rich expressions his regard To use made sacred by some antientancient [sic] bard; Tost by a different gust of hopes and fears, He begs of heav'n an hundred eyes and ears. Now here, now there coy nature he pursues, And takes one image in a thousand views. He waits the happy minute that affords The noblest thoughts, and most expressive words. He brooks no dull delay; admits no rest; A tide of passions struggles in his breast; Round his dark soul no clear ideas play, The most familiar objects glide away. All fixt in thought, astonisht he appears, His soul examines and consults his ears; And racks his faithless memory, to find Some traces faintly sketch'd upon his mind. There he unlocks the glorious magazine, And opens every faculty within; Brings out with pride their intellectual spoils, And with the noble treasure crowns his toils; And