I.—­1.

Awake, Aeolian lyre! awake,
And give to rapture all thy trembling strings;
From Helicon’s harmonious springs
A thousand rills their mazy progress take;
The laughing flowers, that round them blow,
Drink life and fragrance as they flow. 
Now the rich stream of music winds along,
Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,
Through verdant vales and Ceres’ golden reign;
Now rolling down the steep amain,
Headlong, impetuous, see it pour;
The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.

  I.—­2.

    Oh!  Sovereign of the willing soul,
      Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,
      Enchanting Shell! the sullen Cares
    And frantic Passions hear thy soft control. 
    On Thracia’s hills the Lord of War
    Has curb’d the fury of his car,
    And dropp’d his thirsty lance at thy command: 
    Perching on the sceptred hand
    Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather’d king
    With ruffled plumes and flagging wing: 
    Quench’d in dark clouds of slumber lie
  The terror of his beak and lightnings of his eye.

  I.—­3.

    Thee the voice, the dance obey,
    Temper’d to thy warbled lay: 
      O’er India’s velvet green
      The rosy-crowned Loves are seen,
    On Cytherea’s day,
    With antic Sports and blue-eyed Pleasures
    Frisking light in frolic measures: 
      Now pursuing, now retreating,
    Now in circling troops they meet;
      To brisk notes in cadence beating,
    Glance their many-twinkling feet. 
    Slow-melting strains their Queen’s approach declare
      Where’er she turns, the Graces homage pay;
    With arms sublime, that float upon the air,
      In gliding state she wins her easy way: 
    O’er her warm cheek and rising bosom move
  The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.

  II.—­1.

    Man’s feeble race what life await! 
      Labour and Penury, the racks of Pain,
      Disease, and Sorrow’s weeping train,
    And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate! 
    The fond complaint, my Song! disprove,
    And justify the laws of Jove. 
    Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse? 
    Night and all her sickly dews,
    Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry,
    He gives to range the dreary sky,
    Till down the eastern cliffs afar
  Hyperion’s march they spy, and glittering shafts of war.

  II.—­2.

    In climes beyond the Solar road,
      Where shaggy forms o’er ice-built mountains roam,
      The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom
    To cheer the shivering native’s dull abode;
    And oft beneath the odorous shade
    Of Chili’s boundless forests laid,
    She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat,
    In loose numbers, wildly sweet,
    Their feather-cinctured chiefs and dusky loves. 
    Her track, where’er the Goddess roves,
    Glory pursue, and generous Shame,
  The unconquerable mind, and freedom’s holy flame.