Page:The Progress of Poetry - Madan (1783).djvu/8

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Direct my lyre, inform each trembling string,While Poetry's exalted sweets I sing;How, free as air, its charms spontaneous move,Kindle to rage, or melt to peace and love;How first its emanations dawn'd, disclose,And where, great Source of Verse, thou, Phœbus! first arose.
Where Nature warmth and genius has deny'd,In vain are Art's stiff languid powers apply'd;Unforc'd the Muses smile, above controul;No art can tune the inharmonious soul.Some rules, 'tis true, unerring you may cull,And be, like Dennis, regularly dull;Correctly flat may flow each study'd line,And each low period indolently chime.

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