O HAD I native power to sweep thee,
Lyre that awoke the Delian dawn,
And with the soul of music steep thee,
From old Hellenic poets drawn,
Who would their joys and griefs rehearse
In pure, pellucid Attic verse;

Then would I loose in noble numbers
The heart I dare not now invoke
To stir the golden eagle's slumbers
And horses of the sun to yoke;
Ocean would hist his waves to peace,
And heavenly stars their music cease.