Surpass’d the power of wine.
Fast by the streams he deign’d to praise,
In yon sequester’d grove,
To him a votive urn I raise,
To him and friendly love.
Yes, there, my friend! forlorn and sad,
I 'grave your Thomson’s name;
And there his lyre, which Fate forbad
To sound your growing fame.
There shall my plaintive song recount