Here not the fever of excited minds 495
Its baleful food in headlong passion finds,
To poison turns the flower’d chalice, given
To the bard’s hand by an all-bounteous heaven,
Changing that magic, that might heal the soul,
To Comus’ mocking rod and Circe’s bowl. 500
Oh! better far! here o’er the poet’s lyre,
Hovers a ray of purer, brighter, fire;
And lips that glow with genius’ heaven-sprung flame,
Breathe back the sacred incense whence it came!