Weaving my garland, in whose braid I twine 520
Names, that might blush to gem a wreath of mine,
Did not true fame shun the pretender’s boast,
Exacting least where it might claim the most.
Let such forgive, that on their native plain
A stranger’s lute takes up the votive strain! 525
Not mine to wake the poet’s golden lyre,
Its thrilling chords, and soul-ennobling fire;
Or its sweet sorrow, like the ev’ning’s breath,
Or dew, upon the light and glossy leaf;