alas—my poor muse—what aileth thee now?

thine eyes are bedimmed with the visions of night,

and silent and cold—i perceive on thy brow

in their turns—despair and madness alight.

a succubus green, or a hobgoblin red,

has it poured o'er thee horror and love from its urn?

or the nightmare with masterful bearing hath led

thee to drown in the depths of some magic minturne?

i wish, as the health-giving fragrance i cull,

that thy breast with strong thoughts could for ever be full,

and that rhymthmic'ly flowing—thy christian blood

could resemble the olden-time metrical-flood,

where each in his turn reigned the father of rhymes

phoebus—and pan, lord of harvest-times.