To the Lyric Muse


O RARE one, born in rugged Thessaly,
Hard by Olympus and sweet Helicon,
O haunter of the sunny Cyclades,
O muse of Sappho and Simonides,
Of late where hast thou gone ?
We trace thy wandering feet to Tiber’s land,
Where happy Flaccus sang the Roman noon;
Along the Arno and the haunted Rhine,
By Mulla’s flood and Avon’s silver line,
And by the banks o’ Doon.
And late it seemed that by the western Charles
We heard thy pipe in sweetest cadence drawn;
The Hudson and the busy Merrimac
A moment flung the wayward echoes back,
But now the voice is gone.
O muse, the world is empty of thy song;
The pipe is silent now, and dumb the flute.
Come sweep again Apollo’s mighty lyre,
And bring to earth again the lyric fire.
O muse, why art thou mute ?
Fred Lewis Pattee.