Ancestral guardians of my home forgive,
Pan, too, and Sylvan, if I do not live
The life I praise; but ere I knew its charms,
The choir of Muses wooed me to their arms,
Taught me an eager child their sacred lore,
Arts I still love; and fain had taught me more—
To map Heav’n’s paths, number its stars, and trace
Why wanes the moon; when veils the sun his face,
Hastes purple-clad to sink on Ocean’s breast,
And stays Night’s course for him and Man to rest;