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 | The Works of Thomas Love Peacock |  |
Or haply then the poet's song may cheer
The dark death-season of th' accomplish'd year:
Together then we'll roam the sacred plain,
Where the bright Nine in ceaseless glory reign;
By Homer led, through Trojan battles sweep;
With Virgil cleave the tempest-beaten deep;
Trace the bold flights of Shakespear's muse of fire;
Strike the wild chords of Gray's enraptur'd lyre;
From Milton learn with holy zeal to glow;
Or weep with Ossian o'er a tale of woe.
Nor less shall Music charm: her pow'r sublime
Shall oft beguile the ling'ring steps of Time:
Then, as I watch, while my Rosalia sings,
Her seraph fingers sweep the sounding strings,
In soft response to sorrow's melting lay,
Or joy's loud swell, that steals our cares away,
My heart shall vibrate to the heav'nly sound,
And bless the stars our mutual fates that bound.
The dark death-season of th' accomplish'd year:
Together then we'll roam the sacred plain,
Where the bright Nine in ceaseless glory reign;
By Homer led, through Trojan battles sweep;
With Virgil cleave the tempest-beaten deep;
Trace the bold flights of Shakespear's muse of fire;
Strike the wild chords of Gray's enraptur'd lyre;
From Milton learn with holy zeal to glow;
Or weep with Ossian o'er a tale of woe.
Nor less shall Music charm: her pow'r sublime
Shall oft beguile the ling'ring steps of Time:
Then, as I watch, while my Rosalia sings,
Her seraph fingers sweep the sounding strings,
In soft response to sorrow's melting lay,
Or joy's loud swell, that steals our cares away,
My heart shall vibrate to the heav'nly sound,
And bless the stars our mutual fates that bound.
| The Works of Thomas Love Peacock | |