Читать книгу Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 54, No. 334, August 1843 - Various - Страница 14

The Muse is silent; with a virgin cheek,

Bow'd with the blush of shame, she ventures near—

She waits the judgment that thy lips may speak,

And feels the def'rence, but disowns the fear.

Such praise as Virtue gives, 'tis hers to seek—

Bright Truth, not tinsel Folly to revere;

He only for her wreath the flowers should cull

Whose heart, with hers, beats for the Beautiful.

Nor longer yet these days of mine would live,

Than to one genial heart, not idly stealing,

There some sweet dreams and fancies fair to give,

Some hallowing whispers of a loftier feeling.

Not for the far posterity they strive,

Doom'd with the time, its impulse but revealing,

Born to record the Moment's smile or sigh,

And with the light dance of the Hours to fly.

Spring wakes—and life, in all its youngest hues,

Shoots through the mellowing meads delightedly;

Air the fresh herbage scents with nectar-dews;

Livelier the choral music fills the sky;

Youth grows more young, and Age its youth renews,

In that field-banquet of the ear and eye;

Spring flies—lo, seeds where once the flowers have blush'd

And the last bloom's gone, and the last muse hush'd.