Thy votary sleeps, Thalia! he who sung
To thee beneath his humble roof, and reared
His bays to weave a coronal for thee.
And thou didst wreathe with gracious smiles his lay
That stung the Sardanapalus of our land,[2]
Whose grovelling soul loved but to hear the lowing
Of cattle pasturing in Ticino’s fields,
His source of boasted wealth. Oh, muse inspired!
Where art thou? No ambrosial air I breathe
Betokening thy blest presence, in these bowers