Poetic Sister, who with daring hand, Ere thy fourth lustre's last soft year is flown, Hast seiz'd the epic lyre — with art divine; Wak'd on its golden strings each spirit bland, Or bade its deep sonorous tunes expand: Shalt thou the claim to glory's meed resign, Call other strains, less silver sweet than thine, To Hymen the fate of a disastrous land? See! at that call, Peru's wild genius flies To Thespian bowers! — there, as Urania strays, Grasps her bright robe, and thus impatient cries, With bending knee and supplicating gaze: "Be mine alone thy lovely female bard, O from obstrusive lyres my well-sung story guard!"
