All redolent of Hippocrene,
Stole forth so sweetly on the air,
I felt the Muse indeed was there,
And feel how much her words divine
Must lose, interpreted by mine.
For shame, it said, Fitz-Greene, for shame!
To yield thee to inglorious thrall,
And leave the trophy of thy fame
Without its crowning capital!
The sculptor, bard, as well may trust