Oh, faery finch, whose golden form does climb
    Athwart the starry bays of poesies, sweet,
I hear your voice, and drown in slumber’s clime,
    As I sit, pond’ring in my woolen seat.
My quill spills no sweet word or sweeter song,
    For my heart such cloyed passions cannot game,
And doubly more lies speechless my sore tongue,
    And triply even more, my soul’s the same.

As hours pass, upon these pages, bare
    I stare as if no passion stirs to fly.
To mount into Eutrepe’s mystic lair
    I couldn’t, ‘till your tender lullaby
Had touched my ear, and from my breast awoke
    Some passioned fire, hearing such sweet voice.
Of Heaven’s bells and Heaven’s harps. Out spoke
    Your lilting charms which, magically employs

All of the Muse’s finest strengths and spells:
    Eutrepe’s mystic hymn, Erato’s grace
And Calliope’s trance which softly swells
    In finest verse, and in such verse does trace
Vast time. Oh, finch, were it not for your song
    Nor for you visiting me, worn with age
No words would spill from out my stricken tongue
    And writ wouldn’t be to you, my own homáge.