Chief with the Muses loves to dwell,
Leads those who inward feel and burn
And often clasp the abandon’d urn,—
Say, awful God! did’st thou not prove
My heart was formed for Constant love?
Thou saw’st me once on every plain
To Delia pour the artless strain—
Thou wept’sd her death and bad’st me change
My happier days no more to range
O’er hill, o’er dale, in sweet Employ,