And thou, blest Muse, though rudely strung thy lyre,
Its tones can guile the dark and lonesome day—
Can smooth the wrinkled brow,
And dry the sorrowing tear.
Thine many a bliss—oh, many a solace thine!
By thee up-held, the soul asserts her throne,
The chastened passions sleep,
And dove-eyed Peace prevails.
And thou, fair Hope! when other comforts fail—
When night's thick mists descend—thy beacon flames,