OH Muse! I crave a favor, Grant but this one unto me; Thou hast always been indulgent -- So I boldly come to thee. For oft I list thy singing -- And the accents, sweet and clear, Like the rhythmic flow of waters, Fall on my ecstatic ear. But of Caucasia's daughters, So oft I've heard thy lay, That the music, too familiar -- Falls in sheer monotony. And now, oh Muse exalted! Exchange this old song staid, For an equally deserving -- The oft slighted, Afric maids. The Muse, with smiles consenting, Runs her hand the strings along, And the harp, as bound by duty -- Rings out with the tardy song. |