Never hath gentler soul or purer heart Waked the sweet echoes of Parnassian strings. Let other bards with deeper passionings, With loftier flights and more mellifluous art Compel our praises. -- Thou dost ask our loves As thou gav'st thine to birds and beasts and flowers, Where thy slow Ouse dreaming of summer hours Glides to the chanting of innumerous doves. O tender heart, that seemed so long the toy Of adverse Fate and Heaven most pitiless, Taking thy pleasure in Elysian joy, Knowest thou now no wrong without redress? O God, for Thine own sake give larger mind To Thy meek sons, or make Thy sages kind. |