ADDRESS
TO
THE
MUSES
.
YE
tuneful
sisters
of
the
lyre
,
Who
dreams
and
fantasies
inspire
,
Who
over
poesy
preside
,
And
on
a
lofty
hill
abide
Above
the
ken
of
mortal
sight
,
Fain
would
I
sing
of
you
,
could
I
address
ye
right
.
Thus
known
,
your
power
of
old
was
sung
,
And
temples
with
your
praises
rung
;
And
when
the
song
of
battle
rose
,
Or
kindling
wine
,
or
lovers'
woes
,
The
Poet's
spirit
inly
burned
,
And
still
to
you
his
upcast
eyes
were
turned
.
The
youth
,
all
wrapped
in
vision
bright
,
Beheld
your
robes
of
flowing
white
;
And
knew
your
forms
benignly
grand
,
—
An
awful
but
a
lovely
band
;
And
felt
your
inspiration
strong
And
warmly
poured
his
rapid
lay
along
.
The
aged
bard
all
heavenward
glowed
,
And
hailed
you
daughters
of
a
God
.
Though
to
his
dimmer
eyes
were
seen
Nor
graceful
form
nor
heavenly
mien
,
Full
well
he
felt
that
ye
were
near
,
And
heard
you
in
the
breeze
that
raised
his
hoary
hair
.
Ye
lightened
up
the
valley's
bloom
,
And
gave
the
forest
deeper
gloom
;
The
mountain
peak
sublimer
stood
,
And
grander
rose
the
mighty
flood
;
For
then
religion
lent
her
aid
,
And
o'er
the
mind
of
man
your
sacred
empire
spread
.
Though
rolling
ages
now
are
past
,
And
altars
low
and
temples
waste
;
Though
rites
and
oracles
are
o'er
,
And
Gods
and
heroes
rule
no
more
,
Your
fading
honours
still
remain
,
And
still
your
votaries
call
,
a
long
and
motley
train
.
They
seek
you
not
on
hill
or
plain
,
Nor
court
you
in
the
sacred
fane
;
Nor
meet
you
in
the
mid-day
dream
,
Upon
the
bank
of
hallowed
stream
;
Yet
still
for
inspiration
sue
,
And
still
each
lifts
his
fervent
prayer
to
you
.
He
woos
ye
not
in
woodland
gloom
,
But
in
the
close
and
shelfed
room
,
And
seeks
ye
in
the
dusty
nook
,
And
meets
ye
in
the
lettered
book
:
Full
well
he
knows
ye
by
your
names
,
And
still
with
poet's
faith
your
presence
claims
.
Now
youthful
Poet
,
pen
in
hand
,
All
by
the
side
of
blotted
stand
,
In
reverie
deep
which
none
may
break
,
Sits
rubbing
of
his
beardless
cheek
,
And
well
his
inspiration
knows
,
E'en
by
the
dewy
drops
that
trickle
o'er
his
nose
.
The
tuneful
sage
,
of
riper
fame
,
Perceives
you
not
in
heated
frame
;
But
at
conclusion
of
his
verse
,
Which
still
his
muttering
lips
rehearse
,
Oft
waves
his
hand
in
grateful
pride
,
And
owns
the
heavenly
power
that
did
his
fancy
guide
.
O
lovely
Sisters
!
is
it
true
That
they
are
all
inspired
by
you
,
And
write
by
inward
magic
charmed
,
And
high
enthusiasm
warmed
?
We
dare
not
question
heavenly
lays
,
And
well
,
I
wot
,
they
give
you
all
the
praise
.
O
lovely
Sisters
!
well
it
shews
How
wide
and
far
your
bounty
flows
.
Then
why
from
me
withhold
your
beams
?
Unvisited
of
visioned
dreams
,
Whene'er
I
aim
at
heights
sublime
,
Still
downward
am
I
called
to
seek
some
stubborn
rhyme
.
No
hasty
lightning
breaks
my
gloom
,
Nor
flashing
thoughts
unsought
for
come
,
Nor
fancies
wake
in
time
of
need
:
I
labour
much
with
little
speed
,
And
,
when
my
studied
task
is
done
,
Too
well
alas
!
I
mark
it
for
my
own
.
Yet
,
should
you
never
smile
on
me
,
And
rugged
still
my
verses
be
,
Unpleasing
to
the
tuneful
train
,
Who
only
prize
a
flowing
strain
,
And
still
the
learned
scorn
my
lays
,
I'll
lift
my
heart
to
you
and
sing
your
praise
.
Your
varied
ministry
of
grace
,
Your
honoured
names
and
godlike
race
,
Your
sacred
caves
where
fountains
flow
They
will
rehearse
,
who
better
know
;
I
praise
ye
not
with
Grecian
lyre
,
Nor
hail
ye
daughters
of
a
heathen
sire
.
Ye
are
the
spirits
who
preside
In
earth
and
air
and
ocean
wide
;
In
rushing
flood
and
crackling
fire
,
In
horror
dread
and
tumult
dire
;
In
stilly
calm
and
stormy
wind
,
And
rule
the
answering
changes
in
the
human
mind
.
High
on
the
tempest-beaten
hill
,
Your
misty
shapes
ye
shift
at
will
;
The
wild
fantastic
clouds
ye
form
;
Your
voice
is
in
the
midnight
storm
,
While
in
the
dark
and
lonely
hour
Oft
starts
the
boldest
heart
,
and
owns
your
secret
power
.
When
lightning
ceases
on
the
waste
,
And
when
the
battle's
broil
is
past
,
When
scenes
of
strife
and
blood
are
o'er
,
And
groans
of
death
are
heard
no
more
,
Ye
then
renew
each
sound
and
form
,
Like
after
echoing
of
the
overpassed
storm
.
The
shining
day
and
nightly
shade
,
The
cheerful
plain
and
sunny
glade
;
The
homeward
kine
,
the
children's
play
,
The
busy
hamlet's
closing
day
,
Give
pleasure
to
the
peasant's
heart
,
Who
lacks
the
gift
his
feelings
to
impart
.
Oft
when
the
moon
looks
from
on
high
,
And
black
around
the
shadows
lie
,
And
bright
the
sparkling
waters
gleam
,
And
rushes
rustle
by
the
stream
,
Voices
and
fairy
forms
are
known
By
simple
folk
who
wander
late
alone
.
Ye
kindle
up
the
inward
glow
,
Ye
strengthen
every
outward
show
;
Ye
overleap
the
strongest
bar
,
And
join
what
nature
sunders
far
,
And
visit
oft
in
fancies
wild
,
The
breast
of
learned
sage
and
simple
child
.
From
him
who
wears
a
monarch's
crown
To
the
unlettered
simple
clown
,
All
in
some
fitful
,
lonely
hour
Have
felt
,
unsought
,
your
secret
power
,
And
loved
your
inward
visions
well
;
You
add
but
to
the
bard
the
art
to
tell
.
Ye
mighty
spirits
of
the
song
,
To
whom
the
poet's
prayers
belong
,
My
lowly
bosom
to
inspire
And
kindle
with
your
sacred
fire
,
Your
wild
and
dizzy
heights
to
brave
,
Is
boon
alas
!
too
great
for
me
to
crave
.
But
O
,
such
sense
of
nature
bring
!
As
they
who
feel
and
never
sing
Wear
on
their
hearts
;
it
will
avail
With
simple
words
to
tell
my
tale
;
And
still
contented
will
I
be
,
Though
greater
inspiration
never
fall
to
me
.