THE PROGRESS OF POESY I. 1 Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings!

The wound was staunched and a deep thrill of love Changed agony to rapture all divine.

While I could hug myself in vain conceits Of self-contented sainthoodinward raptures Celestial palmsand let ambition's gorge Taint heaven, as well as earth?

Till I sing day from Tethis armes, and fire With ayry raptures the whole morning quire, Till the small birds their Silvan notes display And sing with us, 'Joy to Parthenia!' (ib.)

If feeling prompt not, if it doth not flow Fresh from the spirit's depths, with strong control Swaying to rapture every listener's soul, Idle your toil; the chase you may forego!