George Crabbe

Song

  [November, 1772.]

  Cease to bid me not to sing.
    Spite of Fate I'll tune my lyre:
  Hither, god of music, bring
    Food to feed the gentle fire;
  And on Pægasean wing
    Mount my soul enraptur'd higher.

  Some there are who'd curb the mind,
    And would blast the springing bays;
  All essays are vain, they'll find,
    Nought shall drown the muse's lays, 
  Nought shall curb a free-born mind,
    Nought shall damp Apollo's praise.