To partial Midas at the match of old,
Nor yet Apollo’s lyre, with chords of gold,
That more than won the crown he lost that day;
Nor even the Orphean lute, that half set free—
Oh why not all?—the lost Eurydice—
Were fit to join with thee;
Much less our instruments of meaner sound,
That track thee slowly o’er enchanted ground,
Unfit to lift the train thy music leaves,
Or glean around its sheaves!