So the descending sun, which hid his ray In mists before, diminishing the day, Breaks radiant out upon the dazzled eye, And in a blaze of glory leaves the sky. Revolving time had injured Chaucer’s name, And dimmed the brilliant lustre of his fame; Deformed his language, and his wit depressed, His serious sense oft sinking to a jest; Almost a stranger even to British eyes, We scarcely knew him in the rude disguise: But, clothed by thee, the burnished bard appears In all his glory, and new honours wears. Thus Ennius was by Virgil changed of old; He found him rubbish, and he left him gold. Who but thyself could Homer’s weight sustain, And match the voice of his majestic strain; When Phœbus’ wrath the sovereign poet sings, And the big passion of contending kings! No tender pinions of a gentle muse, Who little points in epigram pursues, And, with a short excursion, meekly plays Its fluttering wings in mean enervate lays, Could make a flight like this; to reach the skies, An eagle’s vigour can alone suffice. In every part the courtly Ovid’s style, Thy various versions beautifully foil. Here smoothly turned melodious measures move, And feed the flame, and multiply the love: So sweet they flow, so touch the heaving heart, They teach the doctor[217] in his boasted art. But when the theme demands a manly tone, Sublime he speaks in accents not his own. The bristly boar, and the tremendous rage, When the fell Centaurs in the fight engage; The cruel storm where Ceyx lost his life, And the deep sorrows of his widowed wife; The covered cavern, and the still abode Of empty visions, and the Sleepy God; The powers of nature, in her wonderous reign, Old forms subverting, to produce again, And mould the mass anew, the important verse Does with such dignity of words rehearse, That Virgil, proud of unexampled fame, Looks with concern, and fears a rival name. What vaunting Grecians, of their knowledge vain, In lying legends insolently feign Of magic verses, whose persuasive charm Appeased the soul with glowing passion warm; Then discomposed the calm, and changed the scene, And with the height of madness vexed again,-- Thou hast accomplished in thy wondrous song,[218] With utmost energy of numbers strong. A flow of rage comes hurrying on amain, And now the refluent tide ebbs out again; A quiet pause succeeds; when unconfined It rushes back, and swells upon the mind. The inimitable lay, through all the maze Of harmony’s sweet labyrinth, displays The power of music, and Cecilia’s praise. At first it lifts the flattered monarch high, With boasted lineage, to his kindred sky; Then to the pleasures of the flowing bowl, And mellow mirth, unbends his easy soul; And humbles now, and saddens all the feast,