LVIII.

But she, who set on fire his infant heart, And all his dreams, and all his wanderings shar'd And bless'd, the Muse, and her celestial art, Still claim th' enthusiast's fond and first regard. From Nature's beauties variously compar'd And variously combin'd, he learns to frame Those forms of bright perfection,[5] which the bard, While boundless hopes and boundless views inflame, Enamour'd consecrates to never-dying fame.