The Sick Muse

  Alas—my poor Muse—what aileth thee now?
  Thine eyes are bedimmed with the visions of Night,
  And silent and cold—I perceive on thy brow
  In their turns—Despair and Madness alight.

  A succubus green, or a hobgoblin red,
  Has it poured o'er thee Horror and Love from its urn?
  Or the Nightmare with masterful bearing hath led
  Thee to drown in the depths of some magic Minturne?

  I wish, as the health-giving fragrance I cull,
  That thy breast with strong thoughts could for ever be full,
  And that rhymthmic'ly flowing—thy Christian blood

  Could resemble the olden-time metrical-flood,
  Where each in his turn reigned the father of Rhymes
  Phoebus—and Pan, lord of Harvest-times.