To Thee, whose magic all the Graces own, While Pity sighs her soul into thy lay, Fair Votaress of the Lyre! to Thee unknown, I tremble to address this weak essay.
To wring from even hostile breasts a tear, To consecrate the deeds of British Fame, To bid stern Valour mourn o'er Andre's bier And gild the path of Death with Glory's flame
Be thine; O justly Thou of every Muse Belov'd! O bid immortal Truth again, By Fancy deck'd in all her fairy hues, Create new wonders from thy charmful pen!
For me, low sunk in Life's inglorious shade, Some meaner theme befits, some woodland air; But by thy Genius my pursuits betray'd, I pant the spirit of thy song to share.
In some short pause of Pleasure or of Fame, If Fame one moment can thy breast resign, Enough for me if my ambitious aim May wake thy feelings with a verse from mine.
