And dreams that come from God alone,

With flying hand he boldly smites

The breathing strings of heavenly lyre.

Blessed is he who, born in lowly hut,

Prays not for fortune or for wealth;

From him great Jove, with watchful eyes,

Will turn mishap that teems with ruin;

At eve, on lotos flowers couched,

He lies enwrapped in softest sleep;

Nor harshest sound of warrior's trump

Has power to stir him from his dream.

Let glory, with her daring front,

Strike loudly on her noisy shield;

In vain she tempts me from afar,

With skinny finger red in blood;

In vain war's gaudy banners float,

Or battle-ranks their pomp display;

Peace has higher charms for gentle heart, -

Nor do I care for glory's prize.

In solitude my blood is tamed,

And tranquilly the days pass by:

From God I have the gift of song,

Of gifts the rarest, most divine;

And never has the Muse betrayed me:

Be thou with me, oh goddess dear,

The vilest home or desert wild

Shall have a beauty of their own.

In dusky dawn of golden days

The untried singer thou hast blessed,

As with a wreath of myrtle fresh

Thou didst encrown his childish brow,

And, bringing with thee light from heaven,

Radiant made his humble cell;

And, gently breathing, thou didst lean