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And, pointing to the ensanguined field,
O guide me from this horrid scene
O queen of numbers ! once again Animate some chosen swain, Who, filled with unexhausted fire, May boldly smite the sounding lyre ; Who with some new, unequalld song, May rise above the rhyming throng, O'er all our listening passions reign, O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain, With terror shake, with pity move, Rouse with revenge, or melt with love. O deign to attend his evening walk, With him in groves and grottoes talk ; Teach him to scorn, with frigid art, Feebly to touch the unraptured heart; Like lightning, let his mighty verse The bosom's inmost foldings pierce; With native beauties win applause, Beyond cold critics' studied laws : 0 let each Muse's fame increase! O bid Britannia rival Greece !