How near dark Pluto's court I stood,And Aeacus' judicial throne,The blest seclusion of the good,And Sappho, with sweet lyric moanBewailing her ungentle sex,And thee, Alcaeus, louder farChanting thy tale of woful wrecks,Of woful exile, woful war!In sacred awe the silent deadAttend on each: but when the songOf combat tells and tyrants fled,Keen ears, press'd shoulders, closer throng.What marvel, when at those sweet airsThe hundred-headed beast spell-boundEach black ear droops, and Furies' hairsUncoil their serpents at the sound?Prometheus too and Pelops' sireIn listening lose the sense of woe;Orion hearkens to the lyre,And lets the lynx and lion go.