She blends and shifts at will through countless forms, Her wild creation. Goddess of the lyre, Whose awful tones control the moving sphere, Wilt thou, eternal Harmony, descend, And join this happy train? for with thee comes The guide, the guardian of their mystic rites, Wise Order: and, where Order deigns to come, 40 Her sister, Liberty, will not be far. Be present all ye Genii, who conduct Of youthful bards the lonely wandering step New to your springs and shades; who touch their ear With finer sounds, and heighten to their eye The pomp of nature, and before them place The fairest, loftiest countenance of things. Nor thou, my Dyson, [3] to the lay refuse Thy wonted partial audience. What though first, In years unseason'd, haply ere the sports 50 Of childhood yet were o'er, the adventurous lay With many splendid prospects, many charms, Allured my heart, nor conscious whence they sprung, Nor heedful of their end? yet serious Truth Her empire o'er the calm, sequester'd theme Asserted soon; while Falsehood's evil brood, Vice and deceitful Pleasure, she at once Excluded, and my fancy's careless toil Drew to the better cause. Maturer aid Thy friendship added, in the paths of life, 60 The busy paths, my unaccustom'd feet Preserving: nor to Truth's recess divine, Through this wide argument's unbeaten space, Withholding surer guidance; while by turns We traced the sages old, or while the queen Of sciences (whom manners and the mind Acknowledge) to my true companion's voice Not unattentive, o'er the wintry lamp Inclined her sceptre, favouring. Now the fates Have other tasks imposed;--to thee, my friend, 70 The ministry of freedom and the faith Of popular decrees, in early youth, Not vainly they committed; me they sent To wait on pain, and silent arts to urge, Inglorious; not ignoble, if my cares, To such as languish on a grievous bed, Ease and the sweet forgetfulness of ill Conciliate; nor delightless, if the Muse, Her shades to visit and to taste her springs, If some distinguish'd hours the bounteous Muse 80 Impart, and grant (what she, and she alone, Can grant to mortals) that my hand those wreaths Of fame and honest favour, which the bless'd Wear in Elysium, and which never felt The breath of envy or malignant tongues, That these my hand for thee and for myself May gather. Meanwhile, O my faithful friend, O early chosen, ever found the same, And trusted and beloved, once more the verse Long destined, always obvious to thine ear, 90 Attend, indulgent: so in latest years, When time thy head with honours shall have clothed Sacred to even virtue, may thy mind, Amid the calm review of seasons past, Fair offices of friendship, or kind peace, Or public zeal, may then thy mind well pleased Recall these happy studies of our prime.