Urania speaks with darken’d brow: ‘Thou pratest here where thou art least; This faith has many a purer priest, And many an abler voice than thou:
Go down beside thy native rill, On thy Parnassus set thy feet, And hear thy laurel whisper sweet About the ledges of the hill.’
And my Melpomene replies, A touch of shame upon her cheek: ‘I am not worthy but to speak Of thy prevailing mysteries;
For I am but an earthly Muse, And owning but a little art To lull with song an aching heart, And render human love his dues;
But brooding on the dear one dead, And all he said of things divine, (And dear as sacramental wine To dying lips is all he said),
I murmur’d, as I came along, Of comfort clasp’d in truth reveal’d; And loiter’d in the master’s field, And darken’d sanctities with song.’