The pow'r of song invok'd, my voice I raise,
And all my soul was tun'd to  praise:
Whether in verse melodiously she flows,
Or the bold image paints in nervous prose;
Whether once more the sister arts she joins,
And give to  colours,  lines;
Or, sweetly-studious, bends the thoughtful brow,
Or smiles indulgent o'er her yet lov'd
Or, in the private scene, retir'd from view,
(That scene so oft with pleasure mark'd by )
Still as she came, my voice grew faint with fear,
So graceful She, so amiably severe.