To The Muses

WHETHER on Ida’s shady brow, Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the sun, that now From ancient melody have ceased;

Whether in heaven ye wander fair, Or the green corners of the earth, Or the blue regions of the air, Where the melodious winds have birth;

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove Beneath the bosom of the sea, Wandering in many a coral grove,— Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;

How have you left the ancient love That bards of old enjoyed in you! The languid strings do scarcely move, The sound is forced, the notes are few.