No. 5. IF POPE HAD WRITTEN “BREAK, BREAK, BREAK”

Fly, Muse, thy wonted themes, nor longer seek The consolations of a powder’d cheek; Forsake the busy purlieus of the Court For calmer meads where finny tribes resort. So may th’ Almighty’s natural antidote Abate the worldly tenour of thy note, The various beauties of the liquid main Refine thy reed and elevate thy strain. See how the labour of the urgent oar Propels the barks and draws them to the shore. Hark! from the margin of the azure bay The joyful cries of infants at their play. (The offspring of a piscatorial swain, His home the sands, his pasturage the main.) Yet none of these may soothe the mourning heart, Nor fond alleviation’s sweets impart; Nor may the pow’rs of infants that rejoice Restore the accents of a former voice, Nor the bright smiles of ocean’s nymphs command The pleasing contact of a vanished hand. So let me still in meditation move, Muse in the vale and ponder in the grove, And scan the skies where sinking Phœbus glows With hues more rubicund than Cibber’s nose....