Where Rome's forlorn Campania stretches round
Her ruin'd towers and temples;--classic lore
Breathing sublimer spirit from the power
Of local consciousness.--Thrice happy wound,
Given by his sleeping graces, as the Fair
"Hung over them enamour'd," the desire
Thy fond result inspir'd, that wing'd him there,
Where breath'd each Roman and each Tuscan Lyre,
Might haply fan the emulative flame,
That rose o'er DANTE's song, and rival'd MARO's fame.

SONNET LXXVI.

THE CRITICS OF DOCTOR JOHNSON'S SCHOOL[1].

Lo! modern Critics emulously dare
Ape the great Despot; throw in pompous tone
And massy words their true _no meaning_ down!
But while their envious eyes on Genius glare,
While axioms false assiduously they square
In arrogant antithesis, a frown
Lours on the brow of Justice, to disown
The _kindred malice_ with its mimic air.
Spirit of Common Sense[2]! must we endure
The incrustation hard without the _gem_?
Find in th' Anana's rind the wilding sour,
The Oak's rough knots on every _Osier_'s stem?
The dark contortions of the Sybil bear,
Whose inspirations never meet our ear?

1: In jargon, like the following, copied from a REVIEW, are the works
of Genius perpetually criticized in our public Prints: "Passion has
not sufficient coolness to pause for metaphor, nor has metaphor ardor
enough to keep pace with passion."--Nothing can be less true.
Metaphoric strength of expression will burst even from vulgar and
illiterate minds when they are agitated. It is a natural effort of
roused sensibility in every gradation, from unlettered simplicity to
the highest refinement. Passion has no occasion to _pause_ for
metaphors, they _rush_ upon the mind which it has heated. Similies,
it is true, are not natural to strong emotion. _They_ are the result
of spirits that are calm, and at leisure to _compare_.

2: This idea is from a speech of Mr. Burke's, recorded by Boswell.

SONNET LXXVII.

O! hast thou seen a vernal Morning bright
Gem every bank and trembling leaf with dews,
Tinging the green fields with her amber hues,
Changing the leaden streams to lines of light?
Then seen dull Clouds, that shed untimely night,
Roll envious on, and every ray suffuse,
Till the chill'd Scenes their early beauty lose,
And faint, and colourless, no more invite
The glistening gaze of Joy?--'Twas emblem just
Of my youth