The Refined Anacreon

" The Lyre to Heroes had been strung,
But Love alone the tune it sung;
Again 'twas Love; no other sound,
The Poet or the Minstrel found. "
Thus in her frolic Winter's day,
Anacreon's cheerful Muse could play;
But mine, which Agonies inspire,
Tunes with no other string the lyre;
Could Love himself the chords demand,
They would reject his impious hand;
Call'd in his name , but proudly mute,
The baffled insult would refute.
Yet have they known the Tyrant's voice,
And made it once their spirit's choice;
But prouder tears than He could feign,
Have taught their Muse a nobler strain.
Death , as their Genius, they implore,
And cling to forms that breathe no more.
'Tis Love that claims their music still,
But not from the Parnassian Hill,
In which the Nine have caught the ray,
That stream'd from Sappho's am'rous lay;
His pure appeal is to the mind,
That Sorrow's angel has refin'd;
That Nature's filial chain has bound,
And Melancholy's wreath has crown'd.
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