MUSE.
Bat first, or ere thy grief thou say,
My poet, art thou healed thereof ?
Bethink thee, thou must speak to-day,
As free from hatred as from love.
For man has given the holy name
Of consolation unto me.
Make me no partner of thy shame,
In passions that have ruined thee.
POET.
Of my old wounds I am so sound and whole.
Almost I douht they were, nor find their trace ;
And in the passes where I risked my soul.
In mine own stead I see a stranger's face.
Muse, have no fear, we both may yield awhile
To this first inspiration of regret.
Oh, it is good to weep, 't is good to smile.
Remembering sorrows we might else forget.
MUSE.
As the watchful mother stoops
O'er her infant's cradled rest,
So my trembling spirit droops
O'er this long-closed, silent breast
Speak I I touch the lyre's sweet strings,
Feebly, plaintively it sings.
With thy voice set free at last.
While athwart a radiant beam.
