While the dim raven beats her weary wings, And clamours far below.--Propitious Muse, While I so late unlock thy purer springs, And breathe whate'er thy ancient airs infuse, Wilt thou for Albion's sons around (Ne'er hadst thou audience more renown'd) Thy charming arts employ, As when the winds from shore to shore Through Greece thy lyre's persuasive language bore, Till towns, and isles, and seas return'd the vocal joy? III.--1. Yet then did Pleasure's lawless throng, Oft rushing forth in loose attire, Thy virgin dance, thy graceful song Pollute with impious revels dire. O fair, O chaste, thy echoing shade May no foul discord here invade: Nor let thy strings one accent move, Except what earth's untroubled ear 'Mid all her social tribes may hear, And heaven's unerring throne approve. III.--2. Queen of the lyre, in thy retreat The fairest flowers of Pindus glow; The vine aspires to crown thy seat, And myrtles round thy laurel grow. Thy strings adapt their varied strain To every pleasure, every pain, Which mortal tribes were born to prove; And straight our passions rise or fall, As at the wind's imperious call The ocean swells, the billows move. III.--3. When midnight listens o'er the slumbering earth, Let me, O Muse, thy solemn whispers hear: When morning sends her fragrant breezes forth, With airy murmurs touch my opening ear. And ever watchful at thy side, Let Wisdom's awful suffrage guide The tenor of thy lay: To her of old by Jove was given To judge the various deeds of earth and heaven; 'Twas thine by gentle arts to win us to her sway. IV.--1. Oft as, to well-earn'd ease resign'd, I quit the maze where Science toils, Do thou refresh my yielding mind With all thy gay, delusive spoils. But, O indulgent, come not nigh The busy steps, the jealous eye Of wealthy care or gainful age; Whose barren souls thy joys disdain, And hold as foes to reason's reign Whome'er thy lovely works engage. IV.--2. When friendship and when letter'd mirth Haply partake my simple board, Then let thy blameless hand call forth The music of the Teian chord. Or if invoked at softer hours, Oh! seek with me the happy bowers That hear Olympia's gentle tongue; To beauty link'd with virtue's train, To love devoid of jealous pain, There let the Sapphic lute be strung. IV.--3.