If Genius have its danger, grief, and pain,
Which common sense escapes, yet who would change
The powers, thro’ Nature and thro’ Art that range,
To walk the bounded, dull, tho’ safer plain
Of moderate intellect, where only reign
Some faint perception of the Sweet,—the Strange,
The Gay,—the Grand,—the Tender,—the Sublime,
And all the varied stores of Fancy’s clime?
Destructive shall we deem yon noon-tide blaze,
If, transiently, the eye, o’erpower’d, resign
Visual distinctness?—Shall we rather praise
The moon’s pale light?—With owlish choice incline
That common sense her lunar lamp should raise,
Than that the solar fires of Genius shine?