THOMAS GRAY 467 The Progress of Poesy
A PINDARIC ODE
^WAKE, ^Eolian lyre, awake,
And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. From Helicon's harmonious springs
A thousand rills their mazy progress take: The laughing flowers, that round them blow, Drink life and fragrance as they flow. Now the rich stream of music winds along Deep, majestic, smooth and strong, Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign: Now rolling down the steep amain, Headlong, impetuous *ee it pour; The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.
O Sovereign of the willing soul, Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Enchanting bhell' the sullen Cares
And frantic Passions hear thy soft controul. On Thracia's hills the Lord of War Has curb'd the fury of his car, And dropped his thirsty lance at thy command. Perching on the sceptred hand Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feathered king With ruffled plumes and flagging wing Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.
Thee the voice, the dance, obey, Tempered to thy warbled lay.
O'er Idalia's velvet-green
The rosy-crowned Loves are seen
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