O, Poesy ! enlivening pow'r!
Wilt thou accept my humble praise;
(Sweet soother of the lonely hour!)
Nor frown upon my artless lays?

When care and sorrow fill the breast,
'Tis thou canst pour the healing balm;
Or sooth the anxious soul to rest,
When Wrongs annoy, or Fears alarm.

'Tis thine to chace the gloomy thought,
The sullen frown, or glance severe:
By thee the indignant eye is taught
To shed the sympathising tear.

May I thy soft, thy soothing pow'r,
In each distressing moment, hail!
Thou, who canst cheer the troubled hour,
When Wisdom's feebler efforts fail.