Page:Odes on several subjects - Akenside (1745).djvu/56

52 Queen of the lyre, in thy retreat The fairest flow'rs of Pindus grow; The vine aspires to crown thy seat, And myrtles round thy laurel grow. Thy strings attune their varied strain To every pleasure, every pain, Which mortal tribes were born to prove, And strait our passions rise or fall, As at the wind's imperious call The ocean swells, the billows move.

When midnight listens o'er the slumb'ring earth, Let me, O Muse, thy solemn whispers hear: When morning sends her fragrant breezes forth, With airy murmurs touch my opening ear. And ever watchful at thy side, Let Wisdom's awful suffrage guide The tenour of thy lay: To her of old by was giv'n To judge the various deeds of earth and heav'n; 'Twas thine by gentle arts to win us to her sway. Oft