ODE III.
17
'Tis thus, to work her baleful pow'r,
Suspicion waits the sullen hour
Of fretfulness and strife,
When care th' infirmer bosom wrings,
Or Eurus shakes his gloomy wings
To damp the seats of life.
But come, forsake the scene unblest,
Which first beheld you candid breast,
To groundless fears a prey;
Come, where with my prevailing lyre
The skies, the streams, the groves conspire
To charm your doubts away.
Thron'd in the sun's descending car,
What Pow'r unseen diffuses far
This tenderness of mind?
What Genius smiles on every flood?
What God, in whispers from the wood,
Bids every heart be kind?
C
O thou,
