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 | A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes |  |
“To pour that praise be mine,” fair Virtue cry'd,
And shot all radiant, thro' an op'ning cloud.
But ah! my Muse, how will thy voice express
Th'immortal strain, harmonious, as it flow'd?
Ill suits immortal strain a dorick 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 slit his vital thread;
And who may hope gainsay her stern behest?
Then thrice he wav'd the hand, thrice bow'd the head,
And sigh'd his soul to rest.
And shot all radiant, thro' an op'ning cloud.
But ah! my Muse, how will thy voice express
Th'immortal strain, harmonious, as it flow'd?
Ill suits immortal strain a dorick 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
313
And who may hope gainsay her stern behest?
Then thrice he wav'd the hand, thrice bow'd the head,
And sigh'd his soul to rest.
| A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes | |