Ye sacred Nine! that all my Soul possess,
Whose Raptures fire me, and whose Visions bless,
Bear me, oh bear me to sequester'd Scenes
Of Bow'ry Mazes and surrounding Greens;
To  Banks which fragrant Breezes fill,
Or where ye Muses sport on  Hill.
(On  Hill eternal Wreaths shall grow,
While lasts the Mountain, or while  shall flow)
I seem thro' consecrated Walks to rove,
And hear soft Musick dye along the Grove;
Led by the Sound I roam from Shade to Shade,
By God-like Poets Venerable made:
Here his first Lays Majestick  sung;
There the last Numbers flow'd from  Tongue.
O early lost! what Tears the River shed
When the sad Pomp along his Banks was led?
His drooping Swans on ev'ry Note expire,
And on his Willows hung each Muse's Lyre.