Page:Vida's Art of Poetry.djvu/78

 Their wonted toil her wearied pow'rs refuse; Their souls grow slack and languid to the muse, Deaf to their call; their efforts are withstood; Round their cold hearts congeals the freezing blood, You'd think the muses fled; the god no more Would fire the bosom where he dwelt before, How often, ah! how often, tho' in vain The poet would renew the wonted strain! Nor sees the gods who thwart his fruitless care, Nor angry heav'n relentless to his pray'r. Some read the ancient bards, of deathless fame, And from their raptures catch the noble flame, By just degrees; they feed the glowing vein; And all th' immortal ardor burns again In its full light and heat; the sun's bright ray Thus, (when the clouds disperse) restores the day: Whence shot this sudden flash that gilds the pole? The god, the god comes rushing on his soul; Fires with æthereal vigor ev'ry part, Thro' ev'ry trembling limb he seems to dart, Works in each vein, and swells his rising heart. Deep