XXXVII.
 

‘Go down beside thy native rill,
    On thy Parnassus set thy feet,
    And hear thy laurel whisper sweet
About the ledges of the hill.’

And my Melpomene replies,
    A touch of shame upon her cheek:
    ‘I am not worthy ev’n to speak
Of thy prevailing mysteries;

‘For I am but an earthly Muse,
    And owning but a little art
    To lull with song an aching heart,
And render human love his dues;

‘But brooding on the dear one dead,
    And all he said of things divine,
    (And dear to me as sacred wine
To dying lips is all he said),

‘I murmur’d, as I came along,
    Of comfort clasp’d in truth reveal’d;
    And loiter’d in the master’s field,
And darken’d sanctities with song.’