Why, through each aching vein, with lazy pace
Thus steals the languid fountain of my heart,
While from its source each wild convulsive start
Tears the scorched roses from my burning face?
In vain, oh Lesbian vales, your charms I trace—
Vain is the poet's theme, the sculptor's art!
No more the lyre its magic can impart,
Though waked to sound with more than mortal grace.
Go, tuneful maids, go bid my Phaon prove
That passion mocks the empty boast of fame—
Tell him no joys are sweet, but joys of love,
Melting the soul, and thrilling all the frame!
Oh may the ecstatic thought his bosom move,
And sighs of rapture fan the blush of shame!