Man's feeble race what ills await, The fond complaint, my song, disprove, 45 Far from the sun and summer-gale, Say, has he given in vain the heavenly In thy green lap was Nature's darling Muse? The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom, She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat In loose numbers wildly sweet 60 laid, Nor second he, that rode sublime 95 Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky The secrets of the Abyss to spy. |