Song

When PHŒBUS, for what crime unknown, Was exiled from the Courts of Jove, And to this earth came mournful down, Of all things else bereft, but love;

(For that pure Fire feels not the storms That shake or change this worldly frame; Immortal as the soul it warms, It burns in unextinguish’d flame—)

His fingers to the lyre he turn’d, Then all with chords of sorrow strung; The lost delights of heaven he mourn’d, But more her loss, for whom he sung:

He sung so sweetly that the strain Drew pity from the gods above; They call’d the wanderer back again, And gave the MUSE to crown his love.