The Sick Muse

Poor Muse, alas, what ail's thee, then, to-day? Thy hollow eyes with midnight visions burn, Upon thy brow in alternation play, Folly and Horror, cold and taciturn.

Have the green lemure and the goblin red, Poured on thee love and terror from their urn? Or with despotic hand the nightmare dread Deep plunged thee in some fabulous Mintume?

Would that thy breast where so deep thoughts arise, Breathed forth a healthful perfume with thy sighs; Would that thy Christian blood ran wave by wave

In rhythmic sounds the antique numbers gave, When Phœbus shared his alternating reign With mighty Pan, lord of the ripening grain.