English poem
_Ode Xliv._
by Thomas Moore
Listen to the Muse's lyre, Master of the pencil's fire! Sketch'd in painting's bold display, Many a city first pourtray; Many a city revelling free, Warm with loose festivity. Picture then a rosy train, Bacchants straying o'er the plain; Piping, as they roam along, Roundelay or shepherd-song.
Paint me next, if painting may Such a theme as this pourtray, All the happy heaven of love, These elect of Cupid prove.