Her breath the fragrance of the Southern grove,
Her voice the voice of victory and of love;—
Approaching proudly now, with sweetest strain,
Greets Criticus, her godsire—but in vain.
How modest! Criticus! thou wilt not wear
A single honor—nobler is thy care—
Thou wilt not, merely, reign the Muse's sire;
But thou wilt sometimes woo her willing lyre!
Earth! hear that song! The strains that softly sweep
From mermaid's shell, across the moonlit deep—