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ODE V.
Hark, when thy breath her song impells,
How full the tuneful current swells!
Let melancholy's plaintive tongue
Instruct the nightly strains of Y———;
But thine was Homer's ancient might,
And thine victorious Pindar's flight:
Thy myrtles crown'd the [1]Lesbian meads;
Thy voice awak'd [2]Sicilian reeds;
Thy breath perfumes the [3]Teian rose,
And Tibur's vine spontaneous flows
While Horace wantons in thy quire;
The gods and heroes of the lyre.
See where the pale, the sick'ning sage
(A prey perhaps to fortune's rage,
Perhaps by tender griefs oppress'd,
Or glooms congenial to his breast)
Retires in desart-scenes to dwell,
And bids the joyless world farewell.
Alone he treads th' autumnal shade,
Alone beneath the mountain laid,
He
