Oft have the laws of each poetic strain
The critic-verse imploy'd; yet still unsung
Lay this prime subject, tho' importing most
A poet's name: for fruitless is th' attempt
By dull obedience and the curb of rules,
For creeping toil to climb the hard ascent
Of high Parnassus. Nature's kindling breath
Must fire the chosen genius; nature's hand
Must point the path, and imp his eagle-wings
Exulting o'er the painful steep to soar
High as the summit: there to breathe at large
Aethereal air; with bards and sages old,
Immortal sons of praise. These flatt'ring scenes
To this neglected labour court my song;
Yet not unconscious what a doubtful task
To paint the finest features of the mind,
And to the most subtile and mysterious things
Give colour, strength and motion. But the love
Of nature and the muses bids explore,
Thro' secret paths erewhile untrod by man,
The fair poetic region, to detect
Untasted springs, to drink inspiring draughts;
And shade my temples with unfading flow'rs
Cull'd from the laureate vale's profound recess,
Where never poet gain'd a wreath before.