Classic Poem

Whilst you from Holt sweet accents sound,
Shall neighb'ring bards sit silent round?
So tunes the bird her midnight flute,
In shades — while all around is mute.
Enchanted with your lays too long,
I break from silence into song.

N YMPH of these healing Waters! say,
What power inspires your magic lay?
Smooth as the stream where You reside;
Rich as its vein, your numbers glide.
Say, do those salutary springs,
Pierian like, raise fancy's wings;
Not only cure the sick, the lame,
But animate poetic flame.
Sacred the stream — the fount divine,
And You some sister of the Nine;
Some tuneful Naiad to preside,
And warble near the fountain's side.

As at fam'd Aix , historians tell,
Great Charles 's horse struck out a well;
So now we need no farther proof,
That Pegasus here stuck his hoof.
No more shall Holt its name retain,
Austalian springs shall bless the plain,
With You 'tis all poetic ground,
And Aganippe murmurs round;
Not Holt , but Helicon is seen,
And You the Sappho of the green.