380 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE
When Phoebus on his favorite child Bestowed the lyre, he gave enough.
In me doth Childhood's heart delight, While Age forgets his slow decay ;
I nerve the soldier's arm in fight, I bless the pilgrim on his way.
When fierce Oppression's hated brood The ages chain in hopeless night.
Till man at last despairs of good,
And scarcely dares to dream of light.
My voice can pierce the gloom profound. And with new hope fill every heart ;
The trump of Liberty I sound,
And make the affrighted tyrant start.
I melt the soul at Pity's tale, Make man his selfishness forget.
Where'er Affliction makes her wail. Or earth with human tears is wet.
Swift as the wind, lo, there am I !
And, while my strings their strains prolong, Pale Care entranced forgets to sigh.
And Sorrow's voice is drowned in song.
And, when at last I yield my breath, I still shall live in glorious rhyme.
And, through the gloomy gates of death. Sail singing down the stream of time.
Great Jove hath named me child of Heaven, And bids me pass his portals free
�� �
