Muse of the South! whose soul-enchanting shell With mournful notes can melt the soften'd heart, And to each breast of sympathy impart The tender sorrow thou describ'st so well! Ah never let thy lyre superior dwell On themes thy better judgment must disdain! It ill befits, that verse like thine should tell Of Petrarch's love, or Werter's frantic pain! Let not or foreign taste, or tales enchain The genuine freedom of thy flowing line, Nor the dark dreams of Suicide obtain Deceitful lustre from such tones as thine; But still to nature and to virtue given, Thy heavenly talent dedicate to heaven!
