Ye subterranean gods! whose awful sway

To all, proportioned terms he must dispense, And make the sound a picture of the sense.

Ah, mighty Queen! you urge me to disclose, And feel, once more, unutterable woes.

Be sure from nature never to depart; To copy nature is the task of art. The noblest poets own her sovereign sway, And ever follow where she leads the way.

Nor would I scruple, with a due regard, To read sometimes a rude unpolished bard, Among whose labours I may find a line Which from unsightly rust I may refine, And, with a better grace, adopt it into mine.

As when sedition fires the ignoble crowd, And the wild rabble storms and thirsts for blood; Of stones and brands a mingled tempest flies, With all the sudden arms that rage supplies: If some grave sire appears, amid the strife, In morals …

Arms! arms! my friends, with speed my arms supply, 'Tis our last hour, and summons us to die; My arms!—in vain you hold me,—let me go— Give, give me back this moment to the foe. 'Tis well—we will not tamely perish all, But die revenged, …