When Grief pursues with harpy wing,
To whirl me to dark realms of Care,
Upon poetic spells I fly,
Wafted afar from black Despair;
And, as I sing,
Am rais'd on high:
Young Joy with pleasure smoothes the scene,
Of mortal eyes unseen;
With these I fleet,
Amid the Loves and Smiles sweet flowrets wreathe;
And every sigh I waft, and every joy I breathe,
Mix'd with seraphic airs, fly on poetic feet.