The youthful poet, pen in hand,
All by the side of blotted stand,
In reverie deep, which none may break,
Sits rubbing of his beardless cheek;
And well his inspiration knows,
E'en by the dewy drops that trickle o'er his nose.

The tuneful sage of riper fame
Perceives you not in heated frame,
But at conclusion of his verse
(Which still his muttering lips rehearse)
Oft waves his hand in grateful pride,
And owns the heavenly power that did his fancy guide.

Oh lovely Sisters! is it true
That they are all inspired by you?
And while they write, with magic charmed
And high enthusiasm warmed,
We may not question heavenly lays,
For well I wot, they give you all the praise.

Oh lovely sisters! well it shows
How wide and far your bounty flows—
Then why from me withhold your beams?
Unvisited of heavenly dreams,
Whene'er I aim at heights sublime,
Still downward am I called to seek some stubborn rhyme!

No hasty lightning breaks the gloom,
Nor flashing thoughts unsought-for come,
Nor fancies wake in time of need—
I labour much with little speed;
And when my studied task is done,
Too well, alas, I mark it for my own! …

Ye are the spirits who preside
In earth and air and ocean wide,
In hissing flood and crackling fire,
In horror dread and tumult dire,
In stilly calm and stormy wind,
And rule the answering changes in the human mind.

High on the tempest-beaten hill
Your misty shapes ye shift at will—
The wild fantastic clouds ye form—
Your voice is in the midnight storm,
Whilst in the dark and lonely hour
Oft starts the boldest heart, and owns your secret power!