Читать книгу Graham's Magazine Vol XXXII. No. 5. May 1848 - Various - Страница 5

The Muse, in times more ancient, made

The grove's thick gloom her dwelling-place,

And, queen-like, her proud sceptre swayed

O'er a submiss and trembling race.

When stirred her breath the sleeping trees,

Awe-struck, with fearful feet they trod,

And when her voice swelled on the breeze,

Adoring bowed, as to a God!

Her wildly murmured strains they caught,

As echoes from the spirit-world,

Till reeled the brain, to frenzy wrought,

With mixt amaze and rapture whirled!

Thus stern, retired, she swayed the earth,

Till, as new dawned an age of gold,

A happier era led her forth

To dwell with men, like gods of old.

To dwell with us – to roam no more!

Ours is this golden age of bliss!

She comes with blessings rich in store;

And, like a sister, whispers peace.

Not now with awe-inspiring air,

But gentle as the meek-eyed dove,

And clad in smiles that angels wear,

And with an aspect full of love.

She greets us at our fire-sides, when

Sweet looks to accents sweet respond,

And breathing soft her tender strain,

More closely knits the silken bond.

Unmingled joy her smiles afford,

Where meet the mirthful, social throng,

As, gathered round the festive board,

Our healths she pledges in a song.

She meets us in our private walks,

'Mid groves that fairy glens embower,

When Morning gems her purple locks,

Or Vesper rules the silent hour.

Her hand, upon the beech's rind,

Marks well, for fair Belinda's eyes,

(Else vainly murmured to the wind,)

Thy flame, young Damon, and thy sighs.

Stern Toil, beneath her gentle sway,

Well pleased, unbends his rugged brow —

With Bloomfield chants the rustic lay,

Or guides with Burns the daisied plough.

Her form appears the bow of peace,

Upon the clouds that darken life,

Now bidding Sorrow's tears to cease,

And staying now the hand of Strife.

She smiles on me, no bard inspired,

But wand'rer o'er life's arid waste,

Who, fainting, halting, parched and tired,

One cordial, nectared drop would taste.

Companion of the pure in heart,

She tunes the lyre to David's flame,

And rapt, as mortal scenes depart,

She hymns the heaven from whence she came!