BY LYMAN LONG.
The Muse, in times more ancient, made
The grove's thick gloom her dwelling-place,
And, queen-like, her proud sceptre swayed
O'er a submiss and trembling race.
When stirred her breath the sleeping trees,
Awe-struck, with fearful feet they trod,
And when her voice swelled on the breeze,
Adoring bowed, as to a God!
Her wildly murmured strains they caught,
As echoes from the spirit-world,
Till reeled the brain, to frenzy wrought,
With mixt amaze and rapture whirled!
Thus stern, retired, she swayed the earth,
Till, as new dawned an age of gold,
A happier era led her forth
To dwell with men, like gods of old.
To dwell with us—to roam no more!
Ours is this golden age of bliss!
She comes with blessings rich in store;
And, like a sister, whispers peace.
Not now with awe-inspiring air,
But gentle as the meek-eyed dove,
And clad in smiles that angels wear,
And with an aspect full of love.
She greets us at our fire-sides, when
Sweet looks to accents sweet respond,
And breathing soft her tender strain,
More closely knits the silken bond.
Unmingled joy her smiles afford,
Where meet the mirthful, social throng,
As, gathered round the festive board,
Our healths she pledges in a song.