‘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.’