I

At length arrived, your book I take To read in for the author's sake; Too gray for new sensations grown, Can charm to Art or Nature known This torpor from my senses shake?

Hush! my parched ears what runnels slake? Is a thrush gurgling from the brake? Has Spring, on all the breezes blown, At length arrived?

Long may you live such songs to make, And I to listen while you wake, With skill of late disused, each tone Of the Lesboum, barbiton, At mastery, through long finger-ache, At length arrived.