A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes | ||
Here end we, Goddess: this your shepherd sang,
All as his hands an ivy chaplet wove.
O! make it worthy of the sacred bard,
And make it equal to the shepherd's love.
Nor thou, Musæus, from thine ear discard,
For well I ween thou hear'st my doleful song;
Whether 'mid angel troops, the stars among,
From golden harps thou call'st seraphick lays;
Or, anxious for thy dearest Virtue's fare,
Thou still art hov'ring o'er her tuneless sphere,
And mov'st some hidden spring her weal to raise.
All as his hands an ivy chaplet wove.
O! make it worthy of the sacred bard,
And make it equal to the shepherd's love.
Nor thou, Musæus, from thine ear discard,
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Whether 'mid angel troops, the stars among,
From golden harps thou call'st seraphick lays;
Or, anxious for thy dearest Virtue's fare,
Thou still art hov'ring o'er her tuneless sphere,
And mov'st some hidden spring her weal to raise.
A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes | ||