My Muse.

She wanders on, at her sweet will, Thro’ gloomy vales or paths of pleasure, Nor asks the world if grave, or gay, Shall be her theme and measure. She scorns the stilty, stiff Rondeau That artizans must fashion, But loves the brooklets romping flow And Nature’s gush of passion. Tho’ common use has smoothly worn The Sonnet’s polished fetter, She wonders how its chains are borne When freedom’s range is better. The triolet she never tries— She’d lose in such endeavor The glory of the sunset skies, The music of the river. My muse is not a Hellenese With bright, Olympian halo, But that strong, helpful one, that feels The heart-throbs of her fellow. She lifts me from the slough, Despond— Bids Nature hush my sighing By crooning for me sweetest song, While in her bosom lying. The violets, the Spring first kissed, To us, are sweet as heather— We climb the hills, thro’ shining mist, In Autumn’s golden weather. When, Lotus-drugged, Ambition sleeps, She whispers—“Come up higher”— Thro’ starry fields of azure deeps I’m led and feasted by her. She breaks the locks which golden keys Could only open to me, And kindly joins her gift, with Art’s, Earth’s grandest views to show me. While those who sing for fame and crown Must bide the Poet’s tether, Dear Muse and I will wander down Thro’ Freedom’s vale, together. ’Tis sweet to us, the path we tread— All Nature’s song is ours, Her wildest scenes, the stars o’erhead And all her fragrant flowers.