In Mousseau's sweet Arcadian dale
Fair Delphine pours the plaintive strain;
She charms the list'ning nightingale,
And seems th’ enchantress of the plain.
Bless'd be those lips, to music dear;
Sweet songstress! never may they move
But with such sounds, to soothe the ear,
And melt the yielding heart to love.
May sorrow never bid them pour
From the torn heart one suff'ring sigh;
But be thy life a fragrant flow'r,
Blooming beneath a cloudless sky!