Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO THE MUSE, by EDWARD MOXON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO THE MUSE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Fairest of virgins, daughter of a god
Last Line: As erst, with flowers, the path I pensive still pursue.
Subject(s): Poetry & Poets


FAIREST of virgins, daughter of a God,
That dwellest where man never trod,
Yet unto him such joy dost give,
That through thy aid he still in paradise may live!

Immortal Muse, thy glorious praise to sing,
Could I a thousand voices bring,
They were too few. Who like to thee
Can captivate the heart whose soul is melody?

Early thou lead'st me to some gentle hill,
And wakest for me the holy thrill
Of birds that greet the welcome morn,
Rejoicing on wild wing, through fields of ether borne.

Thou paint'st the landscape which I then survey,
Perfumest with odours sweet my way,
Till I forget this world of wo,
And journey through a land where peerless pleasures flow.

At noon thou bid'st descend a golden shower;
To dream of thee I seek the bower,
And, like a prince of Inde, the shade
Enjoy, by thy blest presence more voluptuous made.

At eve, when twilight like a nun is seen,
Pacing the grove with pensive mien,
'T is then thou comest with most delight;
No hour can be compared with thine 'twixt day and night.

'T is, as it fadeth, like the farewell smile,
Which settles on the lips awhile
Of those we love, ere they in death
Resign to heaven their souls, to us their latest breath.

Thou makest the lone Philomel to sing,
Createst a perpetual spring;
Bid'st Memory wake 'neath yonder walls,
O'er which the tint of eve in solemn grandeur falls.

The heavens thou makest cloudless and serene,
And of the moon a huntress queen;
To every star thou givest a spirit, --
In yonder Shakspeare dwells, that Milton doth inherit.

The goodly of old time thou bring'st to view,
And with ancestral pomp canst strew
The unromantic smooth-paced ways
Of these our philosophic but degenerate days.

The flower of chivalry before me stand,
Clad in bright steel, a warlike band;
Among them some who served the Muse,
And at their head the man whom she could naught refuse.

Old bards are there! mine eyes in reverence fall
Before their presence, 'neath whose thrall
My young life one sweet dream hath been,
Dwelling on earth in joys ideal and unseen.

Thou makest the precious tear to gush from eyes,
Strangers to nature's sympathies;
Tyrant and slave alike to thee
Have knelt, and solace found in dire adversity.

Through thee the lover sees with frantic pride
His mistress fairer than Troy's bride;
Through the sweet magic of thy art
He glories in his wounds, and hugs the envenom'd dart.

Her face thou makest a heaven, and her eyes
The glory of those cloudless skies;
They are the planets 'neath whose sway
The willing lover bends on his celestial way.

Thou cheer'st the prisoner in his lonely cell,
The broken spirit knows thee well;
A troop of angels come with thee,
Wisdom, and Hope, calm Thought, and blest Tranquillity.

Ambition blighted seeks thee, and the shade;
Remembrance thee her voice hath made,
At whose sweet call, as to some tale,
We, listening, turn our bark 'mong pleasures past to sail.

Thou spread'st the canvass, and with gentlest winds
Impell'st the vessel, till she finds
Some genial spot, where bends the yew,
Or cypress waves o'er friends who long have bid adieu.

Thou sooth'st the weary and uplift'st the low;
The voice of God thou wert below:
The holy prophets spake through thee,
And wept to see their harps hang mute on willow-tree

Where now had been the warlike of old Troy,
Whom Time nor tyrants can destroy,
If the bold Muse had never lent
Her aid to sing her chiefs brave, wise, or eloquent?

Who, when the patriot falls 'neath ruthless power,
Revives for aye the genial shower;
Whose moisture, like the morning's dews,
Keeps fresh the flower of fame -- Who but the heavenly Muse?

Thou art the eye of pity, that surveys
Man wandering through life's mystic ways;
His various changes are thy theme,
His loves, his laughs, his tears: like him, thou art a dream.

Forgive, blest Muse, my want of skill to sing
Thy wonderous praise. Oh round me fling
The mantle of sweet thought; and strew,
As erst, with flowers, the path I pensive still pursue.





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