Are but the creatures of the author’s pen;
Nay, creatures borrow’d and again convey’d
From book to book - the shadows of a shade:
Life, if they’d search, would show them many a change;
The ruin sudden, and the misery strange!
With more of grievous, base, and dreadful things,
Than novelists relate or poet sings:
But they, who ought to look the world around,
Spy out a single spot in fairy-ground;
Where all, in turn, ideal forms behold,