Oh, could my muse on seraph pinion spring,
And sweep with rapture’s hand the trembling string!
Could she the bosom energies control,
And pour impassion’d fervour o’er the soul!
Oh, could she strike the harp to Milton given,
Brought by a cherub from th’ empyrean heaven!
Ah, fruitless wish! ah, prayer preferr’d in vain,
For her—the humblest of the woodland train;
Yet shall her feeble voice essay to raise
The hymn of liberty, the song of praise!