With frigid art our numbers flow For joy unfelt and fabled woe; And listless are the poet's dreams Of pastoral pipe and haunted streams. All Nature's boundless reign is theirs, But most her triumphs and her tears. They try, nor vainly try, their power To cheer misfortune's lonely hour; Whether they raise the laurell'd head, Or stoop beneath the peasant's shed, They pass the glory they bestow, And shine above the light they throw. To Valour, in his car of fire, Shall Genius strike the solemn lyre: A Riou's fall shall Manvers mourn, And Virtue raise the vacant urn. |