In a Letter to C. P., Esq., Ill with the Rheumatism

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, there upward flies,
And sheds soft slumbers in her votary's eyes.