Lord of the mightiest lyre that ever thrill'd In human hands! once more thy song I hail; Oh! Thou whose cup the immortal Muse hath fill'd Fresh from a found whose pure springs never fail! Vainly shall envy — hatred — pain, assail That breast, which swelling with celestial fire Against all earth-born passions must prevail; Vainly shall Man those subject thoughts require, Which from his sordid haunts to their own Heaven aspire!
