Through vistas of the stars where strange friends dwell.
A temple smiles for him to take his seat
Among the happy Dead whose work is done.
Mourn, fatal Voice, whom ancients called the Muse!
Thou lead’st the devotee through fruitful bowers
Wherein Imagination multiplies
Divinely, and, with noblest ecstasy,
To nature ever renders truth for truth.
Mourn, fatal Voice, whom ancients called the Muse!
Thou teachest to be strong and virtuous;