ODE I. To the Muse

Beneath this close embow'ring Shade My languid Limbs supinely laid, Thy soft, thy gentle Influence, brings A Bliss unknown to Courts and Kings.

Not sordid Care's intrusive Power, Nor bleak Misfortune's cruel Hour, Can reach the raptur'd Poet's Breast; Or move the Mind by thee possest.

By thee oppressive Want beguil'd, Immortal Homer careless smil'd, And much-wrong'd Sappho cou'd defy The keener Stings of Calumny.

While Care the Miser's Pillow haunts, With Spectres of imagin'd Wants, Thy lenient Power my Soul inspires With Slumbers calm as my Desires.

Yet Ah! while thus supremely blest, Poetic Pleasure fills my Breast, Permit, O Muse! one anxious Sigh, For Britain's drooping Liberty.