The Progress of Poesy: A Pindaric Ode

II.3.

Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,

Isles, that crown th' Ægean deep,

Fields, that cool Ilissus laves,

Or where Mæander's amber waves

In ling'ring Lab'rinths creep,

How do your tuneful echoes languish,

Mute, but to the voice of Anguish?

Where each old poetic mountain

Inspiration breath'd around:

Ev'ry shade and hallow'd Fountain

Murmur'd deep a solemn sound:

Till the sad Nine in Greece's evil hour

Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.

Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,

And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.

When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,

They sought, O Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast.