Come then, tell me, sage divine, Is it an offence to own That our bosoms e’er incline Toward immortal glory’s throne? For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure…

I. 1. The wise and great of every clime, Through all the spacious walks of… Where’er the Muse her power displ… With joy have listen’d and obey’d.

Say, Townshend, what can London b… To pay thee for the pleasures lost… The health to-day resign’d, When spring from this her favorite… Bade winter hasten his retreat,

Thrice hath the spring beheld thy… Since I exulting grasp’d the tune… Eager through endless years to sou… Proud that my memory with thine sh… How hast thou stain’d the splendor…

With sordid floods the wintry Urn Hath stain’d fair Richmond’s leve… Her naked hill the Dryads mourn, No longer a poetic scene. No longer there thy raptur’d eye

I. 1. Once more I join the Thespian cho… And taste the inspiring fount agai… O parent of the Grecian lyre, Admit me to thy powerful strain—

Thou, who the verdant plain dost t… While Thames among his willows fr… Retires; o stranger, stay thee, an… Around contemplate well. This is… Where England’s ancient barons, c…

Believe me, Edwards, to restrain The licence of a railer’s tongue Is what but seldom men obtain By sense or wit, by prose or song: A task for more Herculean powers,

Occasioned by the insults of the… Whence this unwonted transport in… Why glow my thoughts, and whither… Aspire with rapid wing? Her count… Demands her efforts: at that sacre…

With what attractive charms this g… Of nature touches the consenting h… Of mortal men; and what the pleasi… Which beauteous imitation thence d… To deck the poet’s, or the painter…

Come then, tell me, sage divine, Is it an offence to own That our bosoms e’er incline Toward immortal glory’s throne? For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure…

If rightly tuneful bards decide, If it be fix’d in Love’s decrees, That Beauty ought not to be tried But by its native power to please, Then tell me, youths and lovers, t…

No, foolish youth’€”To virtuous f… If now thy early hopes be vow’d, If true ambition’s nobler flame Command thy footsteps from the cro… Lean not to love’s inchanting snar…

O rustic herald of the spring, At length in yonder woody vale Fast by the brook I hear thee sin… And, studious of thy homely tale, Amid the vespers of the grove,