[153]Harpers and men of song: but kings arise
From Jove himself. Oh blessed is the man
Whome’er the Muses love! sweet is the voice
That from his lips flows ever. [154]Is there one
Who hides some fresh grief in his wounded mind
And mourns with aching heart? but he, the bard,
[155]The servant of the Muse, awakes the song
To deeds of men of old, and blessed gods
That dwell on mount Olympus. Straight he feels
His sorrow stealing in forgetfulness: