Till April starts, and calls around 5 The sleeping fragrance from the ground, Scatters his freshest, tenderest green. O Thou, by Nature taught To breathe her genuine thought In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong; Who first, on mountains wild, In Fancy, loveliest child, 5 Thy babe, or Pleasure's, nursed the powers of song! Thou, who with hermit heart, Disdain'st the wealth of art, And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall, 10 In Attic robe array'd, O chaste, unboastful Nymph, to thee I call! 40 35 338 390 25 |