Of ideot notes, impertinently long. 495
But he the Muse’s laurel justly shares,
A Poet he, and touch’d with Heaven’s own fire;
Who, with bold rage or solemn pomp of sounds,
Inflames, exalts, and ravishes the soul;
Now tender, plaintive, sweet almost to pain, 500
In Love dissolves you; now in sprightly strains
Breathes a gay rapture thro’ your thrilling breast;
Or melts the heart with airs divinely sad;
Or wakes to horror the tremendous strings.