Page:Poems - Lewis (1812).djvu/25

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POEMS.
9
Oh! Fair Enchantress, now displayOn me thy magic art;Spread round my couch thy visions gay,And calm my swelling heart!Myself no longer let me see,So far from all I fain would be;Paint me from faults exempt:Bid cruel sense obey thy rule,And make me. . . .like yon happy Fool,My envy and contempt.
Pleased with himself, no busy thoughtSuggests, he can displease;In all he does or says, he noughtBut sterling merit sees.To him his voice, though cracked and sharp,More tuneful sounds than golden harpBy hands of seraphs strung;And while his prate each hearer tires,He thinks Apollo's self inspiresThe nothings of his tongue.
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