Fair Angels of Olympus, Muses Nine,
That on its snowy summit gay recline,
With other gods and haply the cynosure
Of poets whom inspires your sacred ewer,
O'erflowed with the ambrosial Hippocrene,
The haunt of daughters of Mnemosyne,
And Father Jove who loves these nymphets most,
And of that gelid crest th’ immortal host.
Apollo, son of Jove, gives company
To your glad song of heaven’s euphony;
There to his lyre flourish unfettered throats
That bear the truest art through truest notes.
When sing ye graceful goddesses amidst
The brood of Saturn’s mighty son in feasts,
May gladden the heart of children of the plain
As well who in summer nights hearken you fain.
I heard that music mild betwixt the glades,
‘Twixt valleys old till with the breeze it fades,
Amongst the rustling youthful Aspen leaves,
From bough to bough its tender beauty weaves.
On warbler’s throat ye happy strains do pour,
Above the groves as o’er the mountain soar
They with their pinions unweary and suave,
Dispenser of all art ye fain observe.