Dear to the genii of the woodland dell.
“But thou hast dared to call me to the day,
To list the warblings of thine earthly lay,
Presumptuous bard; or is it to demand
Some favor from us, which thou fear’st to speak,
And only o’er thy harp-chords dar’st to break,
The vain request that trembles on thy hand,
In strains that by the aid of echo go,
From rocks above to coral caves below?
“But know, vain bard, the longings of thy breast,