Long, virgin, may thy genial fire
Each late exhausted vein inspire,
The crimson tide of life renew,
And give to glide in channels blue.
Thee Wit and Mirth spontaneous serve,
That give a tone to every nerve,
Invoke thee, Harmony's bright Queen,
To tune the disarrang'd machine.
The glow of Titan's orient ray
Thy happy pencil shall pourtray
With grace more exquisite than lies
In Guido's air, or Titian's dyes;
Hence the pale hue of Sickness chase,
And call up each reviving grace.
O'er which as late with haggard hand
Consumption shook her magic wand;
Nature's last debt prepar'd to pay
Youth's drooping flowers 'gan fade away:
No crimson hue was seen to glow,
The stagnate blood forgot to flow;
Their lustre fled, the languid eyes
Stood fixt in motionless surprise;
Each sense seem'd lost in endless night,
The trembling soul was wing'd for flight:
Which Death's rude shaft had half set free
In unconceiv'd eternity.