Chief of the Muses—great Calliope! Where is thy idle stylus hid to-day— That rod, whose grand, immortalizing sway Held Homer's hand in trust as honor's fee? And has thy tuba lost its ancient free And ample eloquence? Forsooth! the bray Of modern orators is puppet play— The loon's call hooting by life's raging sea! And yet, I heard a locomotive roar Across the almost boundless plain; its voice Spake with prophetic power, thus: "Rejoice! I carry progress to the farthest shore." Perchance thy epic staves and eloquence Thus mask in modern processes immense. |