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. My strain is neglected and dead is my hope: But you never shall hear me complain To thy cliffs, rocky SEATON, adieu ! |