And why not I, as he That's greatest, if as free, (In sundry strains that strive, Since there so many be), Th' old Lyric kind revive? I will, yea; and I may: Who shall oppose my way? For what is he alone, That of himself can say, He's Heir of Helicon. APOLLO and the Nine Forbid no man their shrine, That cometh with hands pure; Else, they be so divine, They will not him endure. For they be such coy things; That they care not for Kings, And dare let them know it: Nor may he touch their Springs That is not born a Poet. [Sidenote: PYRENÆUS, King of Phocis attempting to ravish the Muses.] The Phocean it did prove, Whom when foul lust did move Those Maids, unchaste to make; Fell as with them he strove, His neck and justly brake. That instrument ne'er heard, Struck by the skilful Bard, It strongly to awake; But it th' infernals scared, And made Olympus quake. [Sidenote: I Samuel xvi.] As those prophetic strings, Whose sounds with fiery wings Drave fiends from their abode; Touched by the best of Kings, That sang the holy Ode. [Sidenote: ORPHEUS the Thracian Poet. _Caput, Hebre, lyramque excipis, &c._ OVID. _Metam._ xi.] So his, which women slew: And it int' Hebrus threw; Such sounds yet forth it sent, The banks to weep that drew, As down the stream it went. [Sidenote: MERCURY, inventor of the harp, as HORACE. Ode 10, Lib. I., _curvæque lyræ parentem_.] That by the tortoise shell, To MAYA'S son it fell, The most thereof not doubt: But sure some Power did dwell In him who found it out. [Sidenote: Thebes feigned to have been raised by music.] The wildest of the field, And air, with rivers t' yield, Which moved; that sturdy glebes, And mossy oaks could wield, To raise the piles of Thebes. And diversely though strung, So anciently We sung To it; that now scarce known, If first it did belong To Greece, or if our own. [Sidenote: The ancient British Priests, so called of their abode in woods.] The Druids embrued With gore, on altars rude With sacrifices crowned, In hollow woods bedewed, Adored the trembling sound. [Sidenote: PINDAR, Prince of the Greek Lyrics, of whom HORACE, _PINDARUM quisquis studet, &c._ Ode 2, Lib. IV.] Though we be _all_ to seek Of PINDAR, that great Greek, To finger it aright; The soul with power to strike: His hand retained such might. [Sidenote: HORACE, first of the Romans in that kind.] Or him that Rome did grace, Whose Airs we all embrace: That scarcely found his peer; Nor giveth PHŒBUS place, For strokes divinely clear. [Sidenote: The Irish Harp.]