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Till April starts, and calls around

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The sleeping fragrance from the ground,
And lightly o'er the living scene

Scatters his freshest, tenderest green.

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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,

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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,
But com'st, a decent maid

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In Attic robe array'd,

O chaste, unboastful Nymph, to thee I call!

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