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Poems

By Mr. Polwhele. In three volumes

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Far other notions of pathetic speech
The speakers of the Roman senate form'd;
Who ne'er essay'd to steal into the heart,
By painting to the feelings. 'Twas not theirs
To touch by imagery, but to move
By sympathetic strokes—to ope the effect
Of each impression on their own warm mind;
Not shew the mental portraiture itself,
By gradual art, thro' fancy's calmer light.
Pure passion dwells not on description's hues;
But ever lives, (and trembles, as it lives),
In indistinctest energies—a look,
A tone, a gesture! Hence, the speaker's soul

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Enkindled, spreads its own contagious warmth.
'Tis thus the uncultur'd know the affection's force,
Bias'd by nature to admire! to shake
With agony, with rapture! circumscrib'd
By narrow bounds; nor shap'd to scrutinize
The ideas, whose obscure effect they feel.