NARCISSA.
37
Take Phoebus to yourselves, ye basking Bards!
Inebriate at fair Fortune's Fountain head;
And reeling thro' the Wilderness of Joy;
Where Sense runs savage, broke from Reason's Chain,
And sings false Peace, till smother'd by the Pall.
My Fortune is unlike; unlike my Song;
Unlike the Deity my Song invokes.
I to Day's soft-ey'd Sister pay my Court,
(Endymion's Rival!) and her Aid implore;
Now first implor'd in succour to the Muse.
Thou, who didst lately borrow[1] Cynthia's Form,
And modestly forego thine Own! O Thou,
Who didst thyself, at midnight Hours, inspire!
Say, why not Cynthia Patroness of Song?
As thou her Crescent, she thy Character
Assumes; still more a Goddess by the change.
Are there demurring Wits, who dare dispute
This Revolution in the World inspir'd?
Ye train Pierian! to the Lunar Sphere,
In silent Hour, address your ardent Call
For Aid immortal; less her Brother's Right.
She, with the Spheres harmonious, nightly leads
The mazy Dance, and hears their matchless Strain.
A Strain for Gods, deny'd to mortal Ear.
Transmit it heard, Thou Silver Queen of Heav'n!
What Title, or what Name, endears thee most?
Cynthia! Cyllene! Phoebe!—or dost hear
With higher Gust, fair P———d of the Skies?
Is that the soft Inchantment calls thee down,
More pow'rful than of old Circean Charm?
Come; but from Heav'nly Banquets with thee bring
The Soul of Song, and whisper in mine Ear
The Theft divine; or in propitious Dreams
(For Dreams are Thine) transfuse it thro' the Breast
Inebriate at fair Fortune's Fountain head;
And reeling thro' the Wilderness of Joy;
Where Sense runs savage, broke from Reason's Chain,
And sings false Peace, till smother'd by the Pall.
My Fortune is unlike; unlike my Song;
Unlike the Deity my Song invokes.
I to Day's soft-ey'd Sister pay my Court,
(Endymion's Rival!) and her Aid implore;
Now first implor'd in succour to the Muse.
Thou, who didst lately borrow[1] Cynthia's Form,
And modestly forego thine Own! O Thou,
Who didst thyself, at midnight Hours, inspire!
Say, why not Cynthia Patroness of Song?
As thou her Crescent, she thy Character
Assumes; still more a Goddess by the change.
Are there demurring Wits, who dare dispute
This Revolution in the World inspir'd?
Ye train Pierian! to the Lunar Sphere,
In silent Hour, address your ardent Call
For Aid immortal; less her Brother's Right.
She, with the Spheres harmonious, nightly leads
The mazy Dance, and hears their matchless Strain.
A Strain for Gods, deny'd to mortal Ear.
Transmit it heard, Thou Silver Queen of Heav'n!
What Title, or what Name, endears thee most?
Cynthia! Cyllene! Phoebe!—or dost hear
With higher Gust, fair P———d of the Skies?
Is that the soft Inchantment calls thee down,
More pow'rful than of old Circean Charm?
Come; but from Heav'nly Banquets with thee bring
The Soul of Song, and whisper in mine Ear
The Theft divine; or in propitious Dreams
(For Dreams are Thine) transfuse it thro' the Breast
- ↑ At the Duke of Norfolk's Masquerade.
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