When, Muse?

WHEN, Muse, when shall the wondrous time revive,
That sees the withered sward of Hippocrene
With recreating dew of song grow green,
And the dry thorns Pierian blush alive, —
Break forth in bloom that draws the murmuring hive ?
When, when shall youthful acolytes be seen
Urging some poet-peer of silvery mien
To sing for them — enchained in sportive gyve ?
For now, with pipes untuned are we content,
With soulless themes diurnal that discard
The long-descended priesthood of the bard ;
So rarely now, a trembling ear is lent
Unto the sires of song, whose brows are starred,
Whose alien music dieth heavenward.
Edith M. Thomas.