  The Muse, renowned in ancient story, But seldom seen these humdrum times, Came down to earth, in all her glory, To put new life in modern rhymes. “Forsooth,” she said, “I’m tired of hearing Mechanic singers, every one, With forced conceits and thin veneering, Serving the lamp, and not the sun.” The Muse was but a simple maiden, Who loved the woodlands, meads and streams, With odorous buds her gown was laden, Her hair was bright with rippling gleams; And murmuring an Arcadian ditty, She wandered, with uncertain feet, In wonder, through the crowded city, Bewildered by each clattering street. She gazed upon the hurrying mortals, Each busy with his own affairs. She spumed some lauded poets’ portals,— “Let monthlies print such stuff as theirs.” A milkman nodded her a cheery “Bon jour, ma’mselle,” in ready French, And as she passed a cabman beery, He hiccoughed, “there’s a likely wench.” She met a red-faced, buxom Chloe, A dapper Strephon, full of airs; The one in vesture cheap and showy, The other versed in brutal stares; And shocked and weary, hot and muddy, Into the nearest house she turned, And found herself within the study Of one whose pen his living earned. She looked quite curiously about her (Being of a curious turn of mind), To learn if he did also flout her And still in life some pleasure find. Shortly she marked his desk, half hidden Beneath a mass of copious notes, And turned to it and read, unchidden, Of chartered banks and chartered boats. She read that crops were thriving better, But that the country needed rain; And then another item met her On “Watered stocks, the country’s bane.” She read of “interest rates as under, With money still in poor demand,” And let the item fall, to wonder Were poets wealthy in the land. She read that “none who float on paper Long raise the wind, for all their craft,” “Bulls up a tree, a market caper,” “A house in trouble with a draft.” And cheese more lively every day, That baker’s flour will rise no longer, And of “a serious cut in hay.” As still she turned the litter over, Reading an item now and then, She did beneath the pile discover And pounce upon the writer’s pen; And by the charm the Muse possesses She made it speak like flesh and blood,— Oh! happy Pen, to have her tresses Fall round thee in that solitude! “Dear Pen,” she cried, “in what strange service Is this I find thy skill employed? Thy master’s style seems bright and nervous, Yet is of sense a little void.” The Pen replied: “O gracious lady, Trade questions are considered here, And thou wilt find transactions shady By master’s hand made easily clear.” The pouting Muse her pretty shoulder Shrugged as she listened to the Pen. “Thy master must than ice be colder If thus content to write for men. Go, bid him frame a graceful sonnet, A simple poem from his heart, And I will gently breathe upon it And to its body life impart.” Again the Pen: “O goddess puissant, My master lacks nor heart nor skill To turn a stanza, but of recent Days he hath hungry mouths to fill. He loves thee, but he may not show it, And Pegasus must drag the plough, For men would starve him as a poet Who earns at least a pittance now.” The Muse waxed wroth: “Would not my beauty All else thy master make forget?” The Pen replied: “The path of duty My master hath not swerved from yet. Thy beauty haunts his every vision, Sweet on his ear thine accents fall; Yet could he tread the fields Elysian, Think’st thou, while suffering loved ones call?” “But I can make his name immortal.” “Immortal shame!” replied the Pen. “When he should pass Death’s sombre portal And stand before his God, what then? He hath a God-like, awful function, To shield his own from want and wrong; Wouldst have him, then, without compunction, Barter his birthright for a song? “I am his trusted friend. Unflagging, I help him win his daily bread. Though heart may ache, or thought be lagging, Still must the ink be ever shed. Looks through the casement at the stars; And then I know his soul is trying Vainly to pass beyond its bars. “A soldier in the war of labor, He battles on, from day to day, Swinging the gold-compelling sabre, Nor finding time to pluck a spray. Nay, more! he must, through glorious bowers, Press harshly on, with heavy tread, Crushing to earth the beauteous flowers With which he fain had wreathed thy head.” The Muse grew pensive. Softly sighing, |
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