So when Prometheus from th' Almighty Sire,
As sings the fable, stole celestial fire,
Swift thro' the clay the vital current ran,
In look, in form, in speech resembling man;
But in each eye a living lustre glow'd,
That spoke the heavenly source from whence it flow'd.
"What magic powers in Celia's numbers dwell,
"Which thus th' unpractis'd breast with ardor swell
" To emulate her praise, and tune that lyre
"Which yet no bard was able to inspire!
" With tears her suffering Virgin we attend,
"And sympathize with father, lover, friend!
" What sacred rapture in our bosom glows,
"When at the shrine she offers up her vows!
" Mild majesty and virtue's awful power
"Adorn her fall, and grace her latest hour."