New-rising on his Soul to chain its Cares.
Imagination turns the Tide of Time,
Unwinds each year, and, thro' reviving Light,
And thro' the vandal Gloom of Centuries drear,
And falling Rome works back, till Nature smiles
And [Tityrus] sings anew; then laughs each Scene,
And cloudless skies appear, and Beachen Boughs
That Shade the [Nereids] listning from their Streams.—
70
Nor Milton's muse I boast, to whom the Morn