SONG.
Reading edition
When Phœbus, for what crime unknown, Was exiled from the Courts of Jove, And to this earth came mournful down, Of all things else bereft, but love; (For that pure Fire feels not the storms That shake or change this worldly frame; Immortal as the soul it warms, It burns in unextinguish’d flame—) 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.