No, though more suasive than the bard of Thrace You swept the lyre that trees were fain to hear,Ne'er should the blood revisit his pale faceWhom once with wand severeMercury has folded with the sons of night,Untaught to prayer Fate's prison to unseal.Ah, heavy grief! but patience makes more lightWhat sorrow may not heal.The Muses love me: fear and grief,The winds may blow them to the sea;Who quail before the wintry chiefOf Scythia's realm, is nought to me.What cloud o'er Tiridates lowers,I care not, I. O, nymph divineOf virgin springs, with sunniest flowersA chaplet for my Lamia twine,Pimplea sweet! my praise were vainWithout thee. String this maiden lyre,Attune for him the Lesbian strain,O goddess, with thy sister quire!