More hours in the substance of each day,
More graces in each hour to grace inclin'd,
Than all the best and worst of earth-wrought clay.
Speak not for Muses' art: that gift is thine,
And doubly honour'd now, since doubly won;
Surrender not to visions, though divine:
What hearken they whose mortal race is run?
But if for thee, and for thyself alone,
His golden lyric note thou fain would'st hear,
Then hold thy will to all his godlike tone:
Yet own not aught to thee was held more dear.
Seek, then; and if he will it, not in vain,
Those children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain.
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