While He, delicious Swain,
Who tun’d his oaten pipe by Mulla’s stream,
Accordant touch’d the stops in Dorian mood;
What time he ‘gan to paint the fairy vale,
Where stands the Fane of Venus. Well I ween
That then, if ever, COLIN, thy fond hand
Did steep its pencil in the well-fount clear
Of true simplicity; and ‘call’d in Art
Only to second Nature, and supply
All that the Nymph forgot, or left forlorn.’
Yet what avail’d the song? or what avail’d
Ev’n thine, Thou chief of Bards, whose mighty mind,
With inward light irradiate, mirror-like
Received, and to mankind with ray reflex
The sov’reign Planter’s primal work display’d?

[(1783) 1:438-52]

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