I
Thus spoke the venerable Sage,
Who ne'er imbib'd Mæonian lore,
Who drew no aids from Maro's page,
And yet to nobler flights could soar.
Taught by the Solyméan maid;
With native elegance array'd
He gave his easy thoughts to flow;
The charms which anxious art deny'd
Truth and simplicity supply'd,
Melodious in religious woe.
II
Poet in sentiment! He feels
The flame; nor seeks from verse's aid!
The veil which artful charms conceals,
To real beauty proves a shade.
When nature's out-lines dubious are,
Verse decks them with a slight cymarr
;
True charms by art in vain are drest.
Not icy prose could damp his fire:
Intense the flame and mounting high'r,
Brightly victorious when opprest!
III
By this time morn in all its glory shone;
The sun's chaste kiss absorb'd the virgin-dew:
Th'impatient peasant wish'd his labour done,
The cattle to th'umbrageous streams withdrew:
Beneath a cool impenetrable shade,
Quiet, He mus'd. So Jonas safely sate
[When the swift gourd her palmy leaves display'd]
To see the tow'rs of Ninus bow to fate
.
Th'Ascetic then drew forth a parchment-scroll,
And thus pour'd out to Heav'n th'effusions of his soul.
