In vain have I aspired, in vain; and oft
Have wept me baffled, o’er the bold attempt.
How often, striking the Aonian chords,
To win her have I sought, so fleeting, coy,
The beauty that in silence I adore!
To imitate the voice and harmony,
Which Echo erst repeated in the woods
Of green Zurgüen: oft as Clio waked
The trumpet that diffuses martial rage,
I wish’d, with her sublimest ardour fired,