To thee, sweet Bard! my votive wreath I bring, Cull'd from the vernal flow'rs; nor thou refuse The grateful tribute of a humble Muse; Unseen, unknown to thee, she still will sing; While o'er fair Isis' willow'd banks she strays, Or, when the morn begins to tinge yon tow'r, Or evening glimmers o'er the silent bow'r, To thee her strains of gratitude she pays, Where oft the magic of thy sacred lay Hath calm'd my breast; where, oft by pity led, At thy sad tale full many a tear I've shed, While down the vale I guide my pensive way. Hail, heav'n-born Muse! thy tuneful numbers flow The guard of Virtue, and to Vice a foe. June 2.
