DOES my Eliza cease to sing,
Or tires my love to touch the string?
Behold, she knows with equal skill,
To grace the Muse’s nobler will.
Hear but her voice! amaz’d you’d swear
The soul of Music centres there!
Read but her verse, and you’ll confess
Her song did raise your wonder less:
Oh! soul of harmony that knows
No touch of discord to disclose!
So well her mind and voice agree,
That every thought is melody:
While bending o’er the charmed stream,
His conscious sighs approved the theme:
Nor long, nor true, he touched the lyre,
Such pleasing woe her notes inspire,
Such thoughts of joy by fortune crost,
Such dear regret of raptures lost,
Such eager hope of future bliss,
That melting, in a fancied kiss,
In amorous frame he lost his care,
And sought another Daphne there;
’Twas then Euterpe ceased: ’twas then
She ceased! — and stole her Brother’s Pen.
Her pen is taught her notes to suit,
And prove her musically mute;
Who would not then, if Bard he were,
And knew like me, the accomplished fair,
Affirm, it was no mortal Maid
We sung, but from the Muse’s shade
Euterpe: then ‘twere fair to tell
How sweetly near the sacred well,
One night she chanced in softer strain
To sing of Love and Lover’s pain,
Till Phoebus came the bank along,
And caught his harp to join the song.