 | Poems |  |
INVOCATION OF THE MUSES.
I.
All hail, ye bard-inspiring Nine!The gift of poesy is thine—
Do thou inspire my lays,
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I'll strike a richer, sweeter strain,
And, grateful, sing thy praise.
Or in some wild and lonely glen,
Far hid from vulgar sight,
Oh, give to me a living pen
My burning thoughts to write!
There thinking, while drinking
Deep at thy hidden spring,
And writing my flighting
On Fancy's airy wing.
II.
I do not ask to soar too high,Beyond the ken of mortal eye—
It savors ill with me;
But o'er the forest and the plain,
The welling spring, and roaring main,
And paint the things I see.
With Nature hand in hand to stray
Along sequestered walk,
At sombre eve or garish day,
And hold familiar talk.
And rhyming and chiming
Upon my rustic lyre,
Well mingling and jingling
With Nature's tuneful choir.
III.
I'll sing the labors of the field,The comforts which those labors yield,
The joys of rural life;
Unmindful of the clamor loud
That makes the city's dusty crowd
The scene of wordly strife.
I'll note the season fleeting by,
Their changes as they roll;
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At eve shall feast my soul.
Oh, hear me, nor fear ye!—
No hypocrite that prays;
But send now, and lend thou
A leaf of Nature's lays!
| Poems | |