 | Specimens of American poetry |  |
THOU ART THE MUSE.
No genius lends its sacred fire
To animate my song;
To me no heaven-presented lyre
Or muse-taught verse belong.
To animate my song;
To me no heaven-presented lyre
Or muse-taught verse belong.
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She who first charm'd my soul to love,
Inspired the tuneful breath;
With love-instructed hand I wove
For her the early wreath.
Inspired the tuneful breath;
With love-instructed hand I wove
For her the early wreath.
To her the softest strains I owe
Who first inspired the flame;
And sweetest shall the numbers flow,
When graced with Emma's name.
Who first inspired the flame;
And sweetest shall the numbers flow,
When graced with Emma's name.
| Specimens of American poetry | |