POEMS.
9
Oh! Fair Enchantress, now display
On me thy magic art;
Spread round my couch thy visions gay,
And calm my swelling heart!
Myself no longer let me see,
So far from all I fain would be;
Paint me from faults exempt:
Bid cruel sense obey thy rule,
And make me. . . .like yon happy Fool,
My envy and contempt.
On me thy magic art;
Spread round my couch thy visions gay,
And calm my swelling heart!
Myself no longer let me see,
So far from all I fain would be;
Paint me from faults exempt:
Bid cruel sense obey thy rule,
And make me. . . .like yon happy Fool,
My envy and contempt.
Pleased with himself, no busy thought
Suggests, he can displease;
In all he does or says, he nought
But sterling merit sees.
To him his voice, though cracked and sharp,
More tuneful sounds than golden harp
By hands of seraphs strung;
And while his prate each hearer tires,
He thinks Apollo's self inspires
The nothings of his tongue.
Suggests, he can displease;
In all he does or says, he nought
But sterling merit sees.
To him his voice, though cracked and sharp,
More tuneful sounds than golden harp
By hands of seraphs strung;
And while his prate each hearer tires,
He thinks Apollo's self inspires
The nothings of his tongue.
