As now o'er this lone beach I stray;
Thy fav'rite Swain oft stole along,
And artless wove his Doric lay,
Far from the busy throng.
Thou heard'st him, Goddess, strike the tender string,
And badst his soul with bolder passions move:
Strait these responsive shores forgot to ring,
With Beauty's praise, or plaint of slighted Love;
To loftier flights his daring Genius rose,
And led the war, 'gainst thine, and Freedom's foes.