If such thy votaries of old,
Some portion of their fire impart;
Then sportive fancy, uncontroll’d,
Shall spurn the rigid rules of art:--
But if in vain thy suppliant plead,
And if thy mandate has decreed
These magic stores conceal’d must lie,
Impervious to another’s eye;
Still, O celestial maid! display
Those tranquil scenes where beauty reigns,
And triumphs, with unrivall’d sway,
O’er rising hills and flow’ry plains,
And streams that, murm’ring as they flow,
Might lure the mourner from his woe;
Let pointed satire too be mine,
Aided by Johnson’s nervous line:--
And mine the pow’r to wake the tender sigh,
And call the pearly tear from Pity’s melting eye.