72 
I never touch its strings unless 
To cheer a pensive hour; 
Or win a magic smile to bless 
Its unpretending power; 
The smiles Affection’s bps have wreathed, 
Ten thousand words are worth 
r 
Of idle praise, if lightly breathed 
By strangers to our hearth. 
And Fame is hut a fearful sound, 
To such a heart as mine; 
My temples must remain unbound, 
Or Friends the chaplet twine. 
The Laurel wreath — or Ivy crown, 
The envied meed of those 
Who strive for Fame, I would lay down 
To gain one fragrant Rose! 
