CANTATA II. The POET

Give me, indulgent muse, to rove The mazes of thy laurel'd grove, To chuse a wreath for WILLIAM's brow Above Sybilla's golden bough.

I walk—I wander here and there— How can I chuse where all is fair? This I prefer, and that refuse— Guide me, my still-inspiring muse, I said, and pluck'd the chosen wreath: Large drops of blood distill'd beneath; A sigh now shook the weeping tree, And thus a vocal sound Brake from the recent wound, And set the form of beauteous Daphne free.

Coy Daphne you behold in me; For WILLIAM's sake I willing bleed. No wreath but this from Phoebus' tree Is worthy him, who Britain freed. Less fair was Phoebus' chace for unsought fame, Be his the wreath, who woo'd and won the dame.