Stalks tow'ring on; the swelling words must rise
  In just proportion to the monster's size.
  If some large weight his huge arms strive to shove,
  The verse too labours; the throng'd words scarce move.
  When each stiff clod beneath the pond'rous plough
  Crumbles and breaks, th' encumber'd lines must flow.
  Nor less, when pilots catch the friendly gales,
  Unfurl their shrouds, and hoist the wide-stretch'd sails.
  But if the poem suffers from delay,
  Let the lines fly precipitate away.
  And when the viper issues from the brake,
  Be quick; with stones, and brands, and fire, attack
  His rising crest; and drive the serpent back.
  When night descends, or stunn'd by num'rous strokes,
  And groaning, to the earth drops the vast ox;
  The line too sinks with correspondent sound
  Flat with the steer, and headlong to the ground.
  When the wild waves subside, and tempest cease,
  And hush the roarings of the sea to peace;
  So oft we see the interrupted strain
  Stopp'd in the midst—and with the silent main
  Pause for a space—at last it glides again.
  When Priam strains his aged arms, to throw
  His unavailing jav'line at the foe;
  (His blood congeal'd, and ev'ry nerve unstrung)
  Then with the theme complies the artful song;
  Like him, the solitary numbers flow,
  Weak, trembling, melancholy, stiff, and slow.
  Not so young Pyrrhus, who with rapid force
  Beats down embattled armies in his course.
  The raging youth on trembling Ilion falls,
  Bursts her strong gates, and shakes her lofty walls;
  Provokes his flying courser to the speed,
  In full career to charge the warlike steed:
  He piles the field with mountains of the slain;
  He pours, he storms, he thunders thro' the plain.