  O Thou, by Nature taught To breathe her genuine thought In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong; Who first, on mountains wild, In Fancy, loveliest child, Thy babe, or Pleasure's, nursed the powers of song! Thou, who with hermit heart, Disdain'st the wealth of art, And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall, But com'st, a decent maid In Attic robe array'd, O chaste, unboastful Nymph, to thee I call! By all the honey'd store On Hybla's thymy shore, By all her blooms and mingled murmurs dear; By her whose love-lorn woe In evening musings slow Soothed sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear: By old Cephisus deep, Who spread his wavy sweep In warbled wanderings round thy green retreat; On whose enamell'd side, When holy Freedom died, No equal haunt allured thy future feet:— O sister meek of Truth, To my admiring youth Thy sober aid and native charms infuse! The flowers that sweetest breathe, Though Beauty cull'd the wreath, Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues. While Rome could none esteem But Virtue's patriot theme, You loved her hills, and led her laureat band; But stay'd to sing alone To one distinguish'd throne; And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land. No more, in hall or bower, The Passions own thy power; Love, only Love, her forceless numbers mean: For thou hast left her shrine; Nor olive more, nor vine, Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene. Though taste, though genius, bless To some divine excess, Faints the cold work till thou inspire the whole; What each, what all supply May court, may charm our eye; Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul! Of these let others ask To aid some mighty task; Where oft my reed might sound To maids and shepherds round, And all thy sons, O Nature! learn my tale. W. Collins |
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