Mother of the tuneful Nine,
Nature prompt my ev'ry line;
I would not, had I Homer's fire,
To Mars and Slaughter strike the lyre;
A dearer theme my bosom fills,
My veins a softer rapture thrills;
Love, I know thy honied sting,
And the flutter of thy wing;
In my heart thou sitt'st supreme,
Making life a lover's dream,
Full of visions angel bright,
Till awakening in delight,
Tremulous I touch the strings;
'Tis not I-'tis Cupid sings.