An Ode

TO THE MUSE OF VERSE.

Irregular,

Written at Fourteen.

O come, thou Goddess ever fair, Who lov’st to braid thy golden hair With many a wreath of laurel bright, From old Parnassus’ sacred height! Whither, beneath some time-devoted tow’r, Thou lov’st to pass the solitary hour; And slowly-solemn pour along the pensive verse, Or the bright deeds of chivalry rehearse; And view by fairy Fancy’s magic sway, Old deeds long done, and years long past away.

Or, if beneath some spreading tree, Thou lov’st the sounds of jollity; And, with thy laughing song, to raise The rural dance’s sportive maze; While, oft attracted by thy song, Nymphs and satyrs join the throng, And interweaving at the sound, Lightly skim the verdant ground; While every bird, on every tree, Is lull’d to catch the melody: And e’en the zephyr’s wanton gale, Moves not a leaf amid the dale, But folds his wings, and creeping near, Imbibes the notes with ravish’d ear; And when is broke the silver tone, When Rapture’s fled, and thou art gone, Still, still, he linger’s o’er the scene Where Poesy divine has been, And strives again, though vainly, to rehearse The fire of Music, and the soul of Verse.

Or by rose-embalm’d bow’r, or murmuring stream, If Love, king of passions, inspires thy theme; That blessing the purest, to man, from above, They gave us all, all, in that blessing of love. Oh still let me hov’ring nigh, Strive to catch the heav’nly fire, When with wildly-beaming eye, Glancing upward to the sky, As if to seize the spirit there, Thy tresses streaming to the air, Thou strik’st the hallow’d lyre. Oh who can tell the heart’s ecstatic play, So sweetly pensive, so sublimely pure, When wand’ring far from world’s disgusting lure, The Muse bewitching wafts the soul away.

In sickness, pain, or care, or strife, In all the woes that wait on life, Thy pow’r can soothing balm impart, And lull to sleep the breaking heart.

Come then, Goddess, if from high, E’er thou’st heard thy vot’ry sigh, Come, and o’er my ravish’d soul Hold thy soft, thy sweet control! O let me soar on Fancy’s wing, Where Piërus pours his sacred spring, And while such joys divine thy pow’r can give, Beneath thy reign, O ever let me live!

ODE TO A POKER.

Written at Thirteen Years Old.

Hail, blithsome wand, and bring with thee, Dancing mirth, and airy glee! When the laughing jest goes round, And sparkling wit’s enliv’ning sound; By the fire, thy cheerful mien On winter’s dark’ning eve is seen.

Oft thy gladsome stirs inspire Strains from Bard’s poetic lyre; Of winning love, or times of old; Of courtly dames, and barons bold; Or some high deed of ancient knight, Achiev’d in tournament, or fight. Oft, when ’gainst the echoing shore, The hail-drops beat, the tempests roar, Shelter’d from the raging storm, The trav’ller warms his cold-pinch’d form. With thee in hand, derides the rain, Beating down the glassy pane.

Oft when, at some ghostly tale, With fear, each ruddy cheek is pale; And half-asham’d, and half-dismay’d, They startle at each other’s shade; And fancying, that the ghost they saw, Around the fire they nearer draw; Then, perhaps, some hoary sire Stirs, with thee, the waning fire; And every eye, now grown more bold, Explores the curtain’s mystic fold, Where just before, by terror’s aid, They saw the spectre’s gliding shade; And laughing at each other’s fears, Again the wonted blush appears.

And oft, when talk has ebb’d apace, And melancholy shewed her face; Thy spirit-rousing aid once more, Renew’d the pleasure lost before. Friendship, love, and all that life Yields to cheer this scene of strife, Courting oft thy fairy pow’r, Gaily pass the jovial hour, While joy and mirth new blessings bring, And care, awhile, forgets her sting.