There stood an ancient mount, yclept Parnass,
(The fair domain of sacred poesy,)
Which, with fresh odours ever-blooming, was
Besprinkled with the dew of Castaly;
Which now in soothing murmurs whisp’ring glides
Wat’ring with genial waves the fragrant soil,
Now rolls adown the mountain’s steepy sides,
Teaching the vales full beauteously to smile,
Dame Nature’s handiwork, not form’d by lab’ring toil.
The Muses fair, these peaceful shades among,