The Muse's Mirror.
To deck herself, the Muse, at early morn,
Wander'd a-down a wimpling brook, to find
Some glassy pool more quiet than the rest.
On sped the stream, and ever as it ran
It swept away her image, which did change
With every bend and dimple of the wave.
In wrath the Goddess turn'd her from the spot,
Yet after her the brook, with taunting tongue,
Did call—"'Tis plain thou wilt not see the truth
All purely though my mirror shows it thee!"
But she, meanwhile, stood with indifferent ear,
By a far corner of the crystal lake,
Delightedly surveying her fair form,
And settling flowerets in her golden hair.
Phœbus and Hermes.
The deep-brow'd lord of Delos once, and Maia's nimble-witted son,
Contended eagerly by whom the prize of glory should be won;
Hermes long'd to grasp the lyre,—the lyre Apollo hoped to gain,
And both their hearts were full of hope, and yet the hopes of both were vain.
For Ares, to decide the strife, between them rudely dash'd in ire,
And waving high his falchion keen, he cleft in twain the golden lyre.
Loud Hermes laugh'd maliciously, but at the direful deed did fall
The deepest grief upon the heart of Phœbus and the Muses all.
A New Love.
Love, not the simple youth that whilome wound
Himself about young Psyche's heart, look'd round
Olympus with a cold and roving eye,
That had accustom'd been to victory.
It rested on a Goddess, noblest far
Of all that noble throng—a glorious star—
Venus Urania. And from that hour
He loved her. Ah! to his resistless power
Even she, the holy one, did yield at last,
And in his daring arms he held her fast.
A new and beauteous Love from that embrace
Had birth; that to the mother owed his grace
And purity of soul; whilst from his sire
He borrow'd all his passion, all his fire.
Him ever where the gracious Muses be
Thou'lt surely find. Such sweet society
Is his delight, and his sharp-pointed dart
Doth rouse within men's breasts the love of Art.