FABLES OF FLORA. 191 
That he might leave his lowly shrine, 
Though softer there the seasons fall; 
They come — the sons ef verse divine — 
They come to Fancy’s magic call! 
‘ What airy sounds invite 
My steps, not unreluetant, from the depth 
Of Shene’s delightful groves ? Reposing there, 
No more I hear the busy voice of men, 
Far toiling o’er the globe. Save to the call 
Of soul-exalting poetry, the ear 
Of death denies attention. Roused by her, 
The Genius of sepulchral silence opes 
i His drowsy cells, and yields us to the day. 
For thee, whose hand, whatever paints the spring, 
Or swells on summer’s breast, or loads the lap 
Of autumn, gathers heedful: Thee, whose rites 
At Nature’s shrine with holy care are paid 
Daily and nightly, boughs of brightest green, 
Aad every fairest rose, the god of groves, 
The queen of flowers, shall sweetly save for thee. 
Yet not if beauty only claim thy lay, 
Tunefully trifling. Fair philosophy, 
And Nature’s love, and every moral charm 
That leads in sweet captivity the mind 
To virtue, ever in thy nearest cares 
Be these, and animate thy living page 
With truth resistless, beaming from the source 
Of perfect light immortal. Vainly boasts 
