Stept from its pedestal to take the air.
Finally, Horace extols the poet as distinct from the mere versifier (Ep. II, i, 210). Pope's rendering ought to dispel the plea of an unfeelingness sometimes lightly urged against him:
Let me for once presume to instruct the times
To know the Poet from the Man of Rhymes:
'Tis he, who gives my breast a thousand pains,
Can make me feel each passion that he feigns,
Enrage, compose, with more than magic art,
With pity and with terror tear my heart;
And snatch me o'er the earth or through the air,
To Thebes, to Athens, when he will, and where.