Ode to a Friend

Thrice blest is he, whose placid birth The warbling Muses hover'd round; Novice to all the ills of earth, While wrapt in music's soothing sound.

If stern Bellona's thund'ring ire, Hurls the proud Monarch from his throne, He whom the sacred Nine inspire Shall make each fleeting hour his own.

Let Gaul with Belgia's arms unite, And haughty Spain resume her rage; He whom Castalia's streams delight, Shall ev'ry rising fear assuage.

If hostile savages alarm, And threat'ning warriors fill each plain, Sweet poesy his grief shall charm, And sportive breezes steal his pain.

If grisly death, with terrors crown'd, His heav'n-attender'd soul dismay; Hark! he awakes th' enchanting sound, And ev'ry spectre shrinks away.

But when resplendent beauty's train Commands the soft accordant lyre; What transports breathe in ev'ry strain, And kindle Love's celestial fire!

Her cheeks he paints as blushing dawn, Her eyes to dim Apollo's rays, Her breath more balmy than lawn When round the orient lustre plays.

Yet if fair Friendship's hallow'd flame In his enraptur'd bosom glows, His strain still rises with his theme, Each note still more divinely flows.

Let wretched misers clasp their ore, And vulgar breasts in sense delight; The muse shall purer joys explore, And wing a more exalted flight.