With skilful fingers sweep the trembling strings;
The air in silence listens to the song,
And Time forgets to ply his lazy wings;
Pale-visag’d Care, with foul unhallow’d feet,
Attempts the summit of the hill to gain,
Ne can the hag arrive the blissful seat,
Her unavailing strength is spent in vain,
Content sits on the top, and mocks her empty pain.
Oft Phœbus’ self left his divine abode,
And here enshrouded in a shady bow’r,