Long, with licentious hand, th' Aonian string Our Bards have swept, and from the sacred spring Quaff'd the pure bev'rage, 'till inebriate grown, Madly they revell'd round bright Fancy's throne: Not so the Poet of fair Olney's shades Amus'd the world, as thro' the rural glades His charming numbers met the musing ear. As pensive Philomela's soft and clear; Wild as he rambled on from bow'r to bow'r, He gather'd sweets from ev'ry opening flow'r— Sweets redolent of bliss beyond the skies! To which he taught the soaring soul to rise; Then treasur'd up in store, with purpose kind, A rich, exhaustless, banquet for the mind!
