ANTISTROPHE.
Say, little book, what furtive hand
Thee from thy fellow books convey'd,
What time, at the repeated suit
Of my most learned friend,
I sent thee forth, an honour'd traveller,
From our great city to the source of Thames,
Cærulean sire!
Where rise the fountains, and the raptures ring,
Of the Aonian choir,
Durable as yonder spheres,
And through the endless lapse of years
Secure to be admired?
STROPHE II.
Now what god, or demi-god,
For Britain's ancient genius moved,
(If our afflicted land
Have expiated at length the guilty sloth
Of her degenerate sons)
Shall terminate our impious feuds,
And discipline with hallow'd voice recall?
Recall the muses too,
Driven from their ancient seats
In Albion, and well nigh from Albion's shore,
And, with keen Phœbean shafts
Piercing the unseemly birds,
Whose talons menace us,
Shall drive the Harpy race from Helicon afar?