 | The Works of William Mason |  |
“To pour that praise be mine,” fair Virtue cry'd;
And shot, all radiant, through an opening cloud.
But ah! my Muse, how will thy voice express
The immortal strain, harmonious, as it flow'd?
Ill suits immortal strain a Doric dress:
And far too high already hast thou soar'd.
Enough for thee, that, when the lay was o'er,
The goddess clasp'd him to her throbbing breast.
But what might that avail? Blind Fate before
Had op'd her shears, to cut his vital thread!
And who may dare gainsay her stern behest?
Now thrice he waved the hand, thrice bow'd the head,
And sigh'd his soul to rest.
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But ah! my Muse, how will thy voice express
The immortal strain, harmonious, as it flow'd?
Ill suits immortal strain a Doric dress:
And far too high already hast thou soar'd.
Enough for thee, that, when the lay was o'er,
The goddess clasp'd him to her throbbing breast.
But what might that avail? Blind Fate before
Had op'd her shears, to cut his vital thread!
And who may dare gainsay her stern behest?
Now thrice he waved the hand, thrice bow'd the head,
And sigh'd his soul to rest.
| The Works of William Mason | |