SONG.

[November, 1772.]

Cease to bid me not to sing.

Spite of Fate I'll tune my lyre:

Hither, god of music, bring

Food to feed the gentle fire;

And on Pægasean wing

Mount my soul enraptur'd higher.

Some there are who'd curb the mind,

And would blast the springing bays;

All essays are vain, they'll find,

Nought shall drown the muse's lays,

Nought shall curb a free-born mind,

Nought shall damp Apollo's praise.

G. Ebbare.