Muse of the pastoral reed and sylvan reign,
Divine inspirer of each tuneful swain,
Who taught the Doric Shepherd to portray
Primeval nature in his simple lay;
And him of Mantua, in a nicer age,
To form the graces of his artful page;
O, come! where crystal Avon winds serene,
And with thy presence bless the brightening scene;
Now, while I rove his willowy banks along,
With fond intent to wake the rural song,
Inspire me, Goddess! to my strains impart
The force of nature, and the grace of art.
Now has the Night her dusky veil withdrawn,
And, softly blushing, peeps the smiling Dawn;
The lark, on quivering wings, amid the skies
Pours his shrill song, inviting her to rise;
The breathing Zephyrs just begin to play,
Waking the flowers to steal new sweets away:
And now with trembling steps, her swain to find,
Fair Delia hastens to the spot assign'd:
Her faithful Colin waits impatient there;
How raptured to regain his long-lost fair!