 | Landscapes in verse |  |
Nor deem, ye Maids Pierian, that I slight
Your gentle visitations:—ye who oft,
In the drear hour of dark adversity
Have help'd my trembling hands to tune the lyre,
And chear'd my pensive spirit with your strains,
Sweet as the sounds, and dulcet as the voice
Of melting love—Ye whose ætherial harps,
Tun'd to the music of your native spheres,
Oft, when the passions blew their loudest storm,
And keen afflictions roll'd their blackest wave,
Have wak'd Compassion's pang-relieving tones,
Honied as voice of cherubim, and smoothe
As the dove's plumage—ev'n the Dove of Peace;
Upon whose downy breast, the troubled soul,
Lull'd by thy magic song, forgets its rage,
Feels it griefs hush'd, and sinks subdu'd to rest.
Your gentle visitations:—ye who oft,
In the drear hour of dark adversity
Have help'd my trembling hands to tune the lyre,
And chear'd my pensive spirit with your strains,
Sweet as the sounds, and dulcet as the voice
Of melting love—Ye whose ætherial harps,
Tun'd to the music of your native spheres,
Oft, when the passions blew their loudest storm,
And keen afflictions roll'd their blackest wave,
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Honied as voice of cherubim, and smoothe
As the dove's plumage—ev'n the Dove of Peace;
Upon whose downy breast, the troubled soul,
Lull'd by thy magic song, forgets its rage,
Feels it griefs hush'd, and sinks subdu'd to rest.
| Landscapes in verse | |