Thou! whose bright genius — nor misfortune's doom That struck the heart, nor female softness pure, Which neither praise can tempt, nor fame allure, Have yet impair'd — but whose unruffled plume Bears thee with flight majestic (tho' serene) Thro' fields of air, to that enchanting scene Lov'd of the Muses, and propitious known To the fam'd Lesbian — her immortal strain Despair not, sweetest Minstrel! to attain! Give to her amorous flames (tho' pure — thy own) Compassion's tear! — her animated lyre Familiar sound! — and whisper to the fair, That a pure mind enraptur'd thoughts can share, And Virtue's glow — improve Poetic fire.
