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But ah! my Muse, how will thy voice express
Th' immortal strain, harmonious, as it flow'd?
Ill suits immortal strain a doric dress:
And far too high already hast thou soar'd.
Enough for thee, that, when the lay was o'er,
The goddess clasp'd him to her throbbing breast.
But what might that avail? Blind Fate before
Had op'd her shears, to slit his vital thread;
And who may hope gainsay her stern behest?
Then thrice he wav'd the hand, thrice bow'd the head,
And sigh'd his soul to rest.
Th' immortal strain, harmonious, as it flow'd?
Ill suits immortal strain a doric dress:
And far too high already hast thou soar'd.
Enough for thee, that, when the lay was o'er,
The goddess clasp'd him to her throbbing breast.
But what might that avail? Blind Fate before
Had op'd her shears, to slit his vital thread;
And who may hope gainsay her stern behest?
Then thrice he wav'd the hand, thrice bow'd the head,
And sigh'd his soul to rest.
Then wept the Nymphs; witness, ye waving shades!
Witness, ye winding streams! the Nymphs did weep:
The heav'nly Goddess too with tears did steep
Her plaintive voice, that echo'd thro' the glades;
And, "cruel gods," and, "cruel stars," she cry'd:
Nor did the shepherds, thro' the woodlands wide,
On that sad day, or to the pensive brook,
Witness, ye winding streams! the Nymphs did weep:
The heav'nly Goddess too with tears did steep
Her plaintive voice, that echo'd thro' the glades;
And, "cruel gods," and, "cruel stars," she cry'd:
Nor did the shepherds, thro' the woodlands wide,
On that sad day, or to the pensive brook,
Or
