ODE I.
Where reverend bards of old have sate And sung the pleasant interludes of Fate, Thou takest the hereditary shade Which Nature's homely art had made, And thence thou giv'st thy Muse her swing, and she Advances to the galaxy; There with the sparkling Cowley she above Does hand in hand in graceful measures move. We grovelling mortals gaze below, And long in vain to know Her wondrous paths, her wondrous flight: In vain, alas! we grope,[63] In vain we use our earthly telescope, We're blinded by an intermedial night. Thine eagle-Muse can only face The fiery coursers in their race, While with unequal paces we do try To bear her train aloft, and keep her company.