Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   Oh, thou, in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth,
   Muse, formed or fabled at the minstrel’s will! 
   Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,
   Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill: 
   Yet there I’ve wandered by thy vaunted rill;
   Yes! sighed o’er Delphi’s long-deserted shrine
   Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;
   Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine
To grace so plain a tale—­this lowly lay of mine.