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xxxvii.
Urania speaks with darken'd brow:
'Thou pratest here where thou art least;
This faith has many a purer priest,
And many an abler voice than thou:
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 but 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;
