SO sat the muses on the banks of Thames, And pleas'd to sing our heavenly Spenser's wit, Inspiring almost trees with pow'rful flames, As Cælia when she sings what I have writ: Methinks there is a spirit more divine, An elegance more rare when ought is sung By her sweet voice, in every verse of mine, Than I conceive by any other tongue: So a musician sets what some one plays With better relish, sweeter stroke, than he That first compos'd; nay, oft the maker weighs If what he hears, his own, or other's be. Such are my lines: the highest, best of choice, Become more gracious by her sweetest voice. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NORTH-WEST PASSAGE: 3. IN PORT by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON JUNE BRACKEN AND HEATHER by ALFRED TENNYSON TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE by ALFRED TENNYSON THREE FLOWERS by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH A MASQUE OF DEAD QUEENS by STANLEY E. BABB |