Thou, Cheerfulness, by heaven design'd To sway the movements of the mind, Whatever fretful passion springs, Whatever wayward fortune brings 50 To disarrange the power within, And strain the musical machine; Thou Goddess, thy attempering hand Doth each discordant string command, Refines the soft, and swells the strong; And, joining Nature's general song, Through many a varying tone unfolds The harmony of human souls. Fair guardian of domestic life, 59 Kind banisher of homebred strife, Nor sullen lip, nor taunting eye Deforms the scene where thou art by: No sickening husband damns the hour Which bound his joys to female power; No pining mother weeps the cares Which parents waste on thankless heirs: The officious daughters pleased attend; The brother adds the name of friend: By thee with flowers their board is crown'd, With songs from thee their walks resound; 70 And morn with welcome lustre shines, And evening unperceived declines. Is there a youth whose anxious heart Labours with love's unpitied smart? Though now he stray by rills and bowers, And weeping waste the lonely hours, Or if the nymph her audience deign, Debase the story of his pain With slavish looks, discolour'd eyes, And accents faltering into sighs; 80 Yet thou, auspicious power, with ease Canst yield him happier arts to please, Inform his mien with manlier charms, Instruct his tongue with nobler arms, With more commanding passion move, And teach the dignity of love. Friend to the Muse and all her train, For thee I court the Muse again: The Muse for thee may well exert Her pomp, her charms, her fondest art, 90 Who owes to thee that pleasing sway Which earth and peopled heaven obey. Let Melancholy's plaintive tongue Repeat what later bards have sung; But thine was Homer's ancient might, And thine victorious Pindar's flight: Thy hand each Lesbian wreath attired: Thy lip Sicilian reeds inspired: Thy spirit lent the glad perfume Whence yet the flowers of Teos bloom; 100 Whence yet from Tibur's Sabine vale Delicious blows the enlivening gale, While Horace calls thy sportive choir, Heroes and nymphs, around his lyre. But see, where yonder pensive sage (A prey perhaps to fortune's rage, Perhaps by tender griefs oppress'd, Or glooms congenial to his breast) Retires in desert scenes to dwell, And bids the joyless world farewell. 110