Touch not the harp of Jesse's son,
Those strains may not by thee be won,
O Master of the lyre;
Touch not the Mount whose thunders dread
Astonished Israel heard, and fled
In smoke involved and fire.

In vain thy infant lips the Muse
Bathed largely in Castalian dews;
Those springs to thee are closed
Which welling out o'er pastures green
With living waters drest the scene
Where Judah's king reposed.

Forbear—till time shall bring the hour
Thy softened heart shall feel a power
To touch thy lips with fire,
And all be there of earth or heaven