104
THE TRIUMPHS
And, the vext poet's last and worst disgrace,
His cold blank bookseller's rhyme-freezing face.
Hence! ye dark omens that to Spleen belong,
Ye shall not check the current of my song,
While Beauty's lovely race, for whom I sing,
Fire my warm hand to strike the ready string.
As Quiet now her lightest mantle laid
O'er the still senses of the sleeping maid,
Her nightly visitant, her faithful guide,
Descends in all her empyrean pride;
That fairy shape no more she deigns to wear,
Whose light foot smooths the furrow plough'd by care.
In mortal faces, while her tiny spear
Gives a kind tingle to the caution'd ear.
Now, in her nobler shape, of heavenly size,
She strikes her votary's soul with new surprise.
Jove's favourite daughter, arm'd with all his powers,
Appear'd less brilliant to th' attending Hours,
When on the golden car of Juno rais'd,
In heavenly pomp the queen of battles blaz'd:
His cold blank bookseller's rhyme-freezing face.
Hence! ye dark omens that to Spleen belong,
Ye shall not check the current of my song,
While Beauty's lovely race, for whom I sing,
Fire my warm hand to strike the ready string.
As Quiet now her lightest mantle laid
O'er the still senses of the sleeping maid,
Her nightly visitant, her faithful guide,
Descends in all her empyrean pride;
That fairy shape no more she deigns to wear,
Whose light foot smooths the furrow plough'd by care.
In mortal faces, while her tiny spear
Gives a kind tingle to the caution'd ear.
Now, in her nobler shape, of heavenly size,
She strikes her votary's soul with new surprise.
Jove's favourite daughter, arm'd with all his powers,
Appear'd less brilliant to th' attending Hours,
When on the golden car of Juno rais'd,
In heavenly pomp the queen of battles blaz'd:
