Poetry Archives

Let the sublimer muse, who, wrapp’d in night,
  Rides on the raven pennons of the storm,
  Or o’er the field, with purple havoc warm,
Lashes her steeds, and sings along the fight;
Let her, whom more ferocious strains delight,
  Disdain the plaintive sonnet’s little form,
  And scorn to its wild cadence to conform,
The impetuous tenor of her hardy flight.
But me, far lowest of the sylvan train,
  Who wake the wood-nymphs from the forest shade
  With wildest song;—me, much behoves thy aid
Of mingled melody, to grace my strain,
And give it power to please, as soft it flows
Through the smooth murmurs of thy frequent close.