In earliest Grece to Thee with partial Choice, <br /> The Grief-full Muse addrest her infant Tongue; <br />The Maids and Matrons, on her awful Voice, <br /> Silent and pale in wild Amazement hung. <br /> <br />Yet he the Bard who first invok'd thy Name, <br /> Disdain'd in Marathon its Pow'r to feel: <br />For not alone he nurs'd the Poet's flame, <br /> But reach'd from Virtue's Hand the Patriot's Steel. <br /> <br />But who is He whom later Garlands grace, <br /> Who left a-while o'er Hybla's Dews to rove, <br />With trembling Eyes thy dreary Steps to trace, <br /> Where Thou and Furies shar'd the baleful Grove? <br /> <br />Wrapt in thy cloudy Veil th' Incestuous Queen <br /> Sigh'd the sad Call her Son and Husband hear'd, <br />When once alone it broke the silent Scene, <br /> And He the Wretch of Thebes no more appear'd. <br /> <br />O Fear, I know Thee by my throbbing Heart, <br /> Thy with'ring Pow'r inspir'd each mournful Line, <br />Tho' gentle Pity claim her mingled Part, <br /> Yet all the Thunders of the Scene are thine!<br /><br />William Taylor Collins<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/epode-5/
