Away, enervate bards, away,
Who spin the courtly, silken lay,
As wreaths for some vain Louis' head,
Or mourn some soft Adonis dead:
No more your polish'd lyrics boast,
In British Pindar's strength o'erwhelm'd and lost:
As well might ye compare
The glimmerings of a waxen flame,
(Emblem of verse correctly tame)
To his own Aetna's sulphur-spouting caves,
When to heav'n's vault the fiery deluge raves,
When clouds and burning rocks dart thro' the troubled air.