Normale Version: The partial Muse has from my earliest hours
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The partial Muse has from my earliest hours
Smiled on the rugged path I’m doomed to tread,
And still with sportive hand has snatched wild flowers,
To weave fantastic garlands for my hesd:

But far, far happier is the lot of those
Who never learned her dear delusive art;
Which, while it decks the head with many a rose,
Reserves the thorn to fester in the heart.

For still she bids soft pity’s melting eye
Stream o’er the ills she knows not to remove,
Points every pang, and deepens every sigh
Of mourning friendship, or unhappy love.

Ah! then, how dear the Muse’s favors cost,
If those paint sorrow best – who feel it most!