Enlighten'd Patron of the sacred Lyre?
Whose ever-varying, ever-witching song
  Revibrates on the heart
  With magic thrilling touch,
Till ev'ry nerve with quiv'ring throb divine,
In madd'ning tumults, owns thy wondrous pow'r;
  For well thy dulcet notes
  Can wind the mazy song,
In labyrinth of wild fantastic form;
Or with empassion'd pathos woo the soul
  With sounds more sweetly mild,
  Than Sappho's plaint forlorn,
When bending o'er the wave she sung her woes,
While pitying Echo hover'd o'er the deep,
  Till in their coral caves,
  The tuneful Nereides wept.
AH! whither art thou flown? where pours thy song?
The model and the pride of British bards!
  Sweet Star of Fancy's orb,
  "O, tell me, tell me, where?"

Say, dost thou waste it on the viewless air
That bears it to the confines of high Heav'n?
  Or does it court the meed
  Of proud pre-eminence?
Or steals it o'er the glitt'ring Sapphire wave,
Calming the tempest with its silver sounds?
  Or does it charm to love
  The fond believing maid?
Or does it hover o'er the Alpine steep,
Or softly breathing under myrtle shades,
  With Sympathy divine,
  Solace the child of woe?
Where'er thou art, Oh! let thy gentle strain
Again with magic pow'r delight mine ear,
  Untutor'd in the spells,
  And mysteries of song.
Then, on the margin of the deep I'll muse,
And bless the rocking bark ordain'd to bear
  My sad heart o'er the wave,
  From this ungrateful isle;
When the wan queen of night, with languid eye,
Peeps o'er the mountain's head, or thro' the vale
  Illumes the glassy brook,
  Or dew-besprinkled heath,
Or with her crystal lamp, directs the feet
Of the benighted Trav'ller, cold, and sad,
  Thro' the long forest drear,
  And pathless labyrinth,
To the poor Peasant's hospitable cot,
For ever open to the wretch forlorn;
  O, then I'll think on Thee,
  And iterate thy strain,

And chaunt thy matchless numbers o'er and o'er,
And I will court the sullen ear of night,
  To bear the rapt'rous sound,
  On her dark shad'wy wing,
To where encircled by the sacred Nine,
Thy Lyre awakes the never-dying song!
  Now, Bard admir'd, farwel!
  The white sail flutters loud,
The gaudy streamers lengthen in the gale,
Far from my native shore I bend my way;
  Yet, as my aching eye
  Shall view the less'ning cliff,
'Till its stupendous head shall scarce appear
Above the surface of the swelling deep;
  I'll snatch a ray of hope,
  For Hope's the lamp divine
That lights and vivifies the fainting soul,
With extacies beyond the pow'rs of song!
  That ere I reach those banks
  Where the loud Tiber flows,
Or milder Arno slowly steals along,
To the soft music of the summer breeze,
  The wafting wing of Time
  May bear this last Adieu,
This wild untutor'd picture of the heart,
To Him, whose magic verse Inspir'd the Strain.