The Poet’s Apology
NO, the Muse has gone away,Does not haunt me much to-day.Everything she had to sayHas been said!’Twas not much at any timeShe could hitch into a rhyme,Never was the Muse sublime,Who has fled!
Any one who takes her inMay observe she’s rather thin;Little more than bone and skinIs the Muse;Scanty sacrifice she wonWhen her very best she’d done,And at her they poked their fun,In Reviews.
‘Rhymes,’ in truth, ‘are stubborn things.’And to Rhyme she clung, and clings,But whatever song she singsScarcely sells.If her tone be grave, they say‘Give us something rather gay.’If she’s skittish, then they pray‘Something else!’
Much she loved, for wading shod,To go forth with line and rod,Loved the heather, and the sod,Loved to restOn the crystal river’s brimWhere she saw the fishes swim,And she heard the thrushes’ hymn,By the Test!
She, whatever way she went,Friendly was and innocent,Little need the Bard repentOf her lay.Of the babble and the rhyme,And the imitative chimeThat amused him on a time,—Now he’s grey.