I only feek the Defarts rough, Where all alone I love to walk,
And with difcourfe refin’d enough, My Genius and the Mufes talk;
But the converfe moft truly mine, Is the dear memory o f thine.
Thou may’ft in this Poem find, So full o f liberty and heat,
W hat illuftrious rays have ftiin’d T o enlighten my conceit :
Sometimes penfive, fometimes gay, Juft as that fury does contröul,
And as the objeft I furvey, The notions grow up in my Soul,
And are as unconcern’d and free As the flame which tranfported me.