When PHŒBUS, for what crime unknown,
Was exiled from the Courts of Jove,
And to this earth came mournful down,
Of all things else bereft, but love;
(For that pure Fire feels not the storms
That shake or change this worldly frame;
Immortal as the soul it warms,
It burns in unextinguish’d flame—)
His fingers to the lyre he turn’d,
Then all with chords of sorrow strung;
The lost delights of heaven he mourn’d,
But more her loss, for whom he sung:
He sung so sweetly that the strain
Drew pity from the gods above;
They call’d the wanderer back again,
And gave the MUSE to crown his love.