ODE III. To his Muse.
By Francis, Lord Bishop of Rochester.
He, on whose Birth the Lyric Queen
Of Numbers smil'd, shall never grace
The Isthmian Gauntlet, or be seen
First in the fam'd Olympic Race.
He shall not, after Toils of War,
And humbling haughty Monarchs Pride,
With laurel'd Brows conspicuous far,
To Jove's Tarpeïan Temple ride.
But Him the Streams, that warbling flow
Rich Tibur's fertile Meads along,
And shady Groves, his Haunts, shall know
The Master of th'Æolian Song.
The Sons of Rome, majestic Rome!
Have plac'd me in the Poet's Choir,
And Envy now, or dead, or dumb,
Forbears to blame what they admire.
Goddess of the sweet-sounding Lute,
Which thy harmonious Touch obeys,
Who can'st the finny Race, tho' mute,
To Cygnets dying Accents raise;
Thy Gift it is, that all with Ease
Me Prince of Roman Lyrics own;
That, while I live, my Numbers please,
If pleasing, is thy Gift alone!
