Son of the Muse, urge thy untir'd career Right onward thro' the clouds of worldly wrong; Thro' all the ills that round life's pathway throng; Nor flag thy plumes at Envy's frown severe; Nor listen to the baleful Critic's sneer; With voice unfaultering speed the moral song; And pour the copious stream of Truth along! Genius shall strains like these delighted hear, And Virtue with a swelling breast attend Enraptur'd on the lay. The holy Muse Of Milton's self from yonder clouds shall bend, And on thy lyre drop fresh Castalian dews; While Petrarch and deep Dante clap their wings, And each in blended notes about thee sings.
