 | Poems |  |
Yet was he not accomplish'd. Nature gave
With prodigality a mental boon,
Which every eye astonish'd. Yet was art—
Yet classic art was wanting there, to smooth
The asperities of language; to restrain
A copiousness o'erflowing the just bounds
Of order, and give method to the whole—
One dazzling emanation! Rude, verbose,
With incorrectnesses of style, and words
Inaccurately plac'd, no skill he own'd,
To treat the dry unanimated theme;
Nor, in the cooler moment, gain the assent
Of critic judgment to his harsh essays.
With prodigality a mental boon,
Which every eye astonish'd. Yet was art—
Yet classic art was wanting there, to smooth
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A copiousness o'erflowing the just bounds
Of order, and give method to the whole—
One dazzling emanation! Rude, verbose,
With incorrectnesses of style, and words
Inaccurately plac'd, no skill he own'd,
To treat the dry unanimated theme;
Nor, in the cooler moment, gain the assent
Of critic judgment to his harsh essays.
| Poems | |