Ode to the Muse.

Or if, when Pride so high aspires,
Thy Torch some subtile Spirit fires
In Rank or Fortune's throng,
How shines the Ore, how beams the Crest,
In the majestic splendor drest

Of Genius and of Song!

O many a Soul of feeble power

Oft dares, in hope's delusive hour,

To linger o'er that Torch:--

Alas! 'tis an enchanted light;

It's flames ascend with Souls of might:
The Weak they vainly scorch.

Yet e'en the Weak may not despair:
Thou canst not quite reject the prayer
Of Him that loves Thee well:
His hand whose skill thy Harp disowns
May sometimes wake imperfect tones

From Love or Pity's Shell.

Ode to the Muse.

Oft from his couch of cloudier dreams

He springs with dawn's congenial gleams

To drink the youthful air;

And, wandering through the twilight dews, In some lone spot he meets thee, Muse, And then forgets his care.

Where virgin roses chastely blush,
While solemn-sounding waters rush

To kiss thy buskin'd feet,

Lull'd with the fragrance and the sound, He finds thee wrapt in thought profound, On some romantic seat.

He knows thee by thine eye inspired,
And by thy stedfast brow, attired

In myrtle's lyric crown,

And by thy wings of stainless white,

That seem prepared for upward flight,

To waft him to renown.