Grant me the Muse, ye gods! whose humble flight Seeks not the mountain-top`s pernicious height: Who can the tall Parnassian cliff forsake, To visit oft the still Lethean lake; Now her slow pinions brush the silent shore, Now gently skim the unwrinkled waters o`er, There dips her downy plumes, thence upward flies, And sheds soft slumbers on her votary`s eyes.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
The script ran 0.001 seconds.