Say, flies he?
Soon he shall pursue:
Shuns he thy gifts ? ---- He too shall give: :
Slights he thy forrows? ---- He shall grieve,
And bend him to thy haughtiest vow.
But, O MELPOMENE, for whom
Awakes thy golden shell again?
What mortal breath shall e'er presume
To echo that unbounded strain?
Majestic in the frown of years,
Behold, the * Man of Thebes appears :
For some there are, whose mighty frame
The hand of jove at birth indow'd
With hopes that mock the gazing crowd;
As eagles drink the noontide flame.
While the dim raven beats his weary wings,
And clamours far below. ---- Propitious Muse,
While I fo late unlock thy hallow'd springs,
And breathe whate'er thy ancient airs infuse,
To polish Albion's warlike ear
This long-loft melody to hear,
Thy sweetest arts imploy;
As when the winds from shore to shore,
Thro' Greece thy lyre's persuasive language bore,
Till towns, and isles, and seas return'd the vocal joy.
But oft amid the Græcian throng,
The loose-rob'd forms of wild defire
With lawless notes intun'd thy song,
To shameful steps diffolv'd thy quire.
O fair, O chaste, be still with me
From such profaner discord free:
While I frequent thy tuneful shade,
No frantic shouts of Thracian dames,
No satyrs fierce with savage flames
Thy pleasing accents fall invade.
Queen of the lyre, in thy retreat
The fairest flow'rs of Pindus glow ;
The vine aspires to crown thy seat,
And myrtles round thy laurel grow.
Thy ftrings attune their varied strain
To every pleasure, every pain,
Which mortal tribes were born to prove,
And strait our paffions rise or fall,
As at the wind's imperious call
The ocean swells, the billows move.