Moral Pieces, in Prose and Verse/The Desertion of the Muse

by Lydia Sigourney

THE employment of transcribing, and the various concerns of a school, having rendered it almost impossible to invent or arrange any thing new, gave rise to the following effusion.

THE DESERTION OF THE MUSE.

'TWAS night! but by an airy form,
   My eye was waking kept,
Which gliding near me, seem'd to seek
    The pillow where I slept.

She strove to frown, but still her brow
    Was innocent and mild;
And though her words were somewhat stern,
    Their tones were sweet and wild.

"Cast not," she said, "a stranger's glance;
    Not thus we us'd to greet,
We know each other well, although,
    Of late we seldom meet.

I saw you, when a child you sat,
    And ponder'd o'er the fire;
And deign'd to stoop that you might see,
    And try to reach my lyre.

You prest its strings with so much joy,
    And such a smile serene,
I fondly hop'd you soon would learn,
    What gratitude might mean.

Amid your light domestic toils,
    I rov'd with footstep free,
And oft you laid your needle down,
    To take the pen from me.

When lonely, pausing o'er your book,
    You walk'd at close of day,
Well pleas'd to trace my dawning smile,
    You threw that page away.

I met you in my mountain dress,
    And sandals wet with dew,
All unadorn'd, and yet I thought
    That I was fair to you.

My lyre was often out of tune,
    Its tones were rude and small,
Yet were they e'er so weak or rough,
    You gladly heard them all.

But now how chang'd! for when I smile,
    And bring my sweetest rhyme,
You coldly bid me 'go my way,
    And come another time.'

For you must stay to 'copy off'
    And polish what you wrote,
And try to soften if you can
    My unharmonious note.

Even when I come, in all my charms,
    To catch your fickle view,
You, starting, turn your back, and cry,
    'The clock is striking two.'

Now what has two, or nine o'clock
    To do with you and me?
And what delights you in your school,
    I'm sure I cannot see.

Yet, when your strange excuses o'er,
    You sit and muse alone,
And seem to look as if you wish'd
    Again to hear my tone.

I come; and then with curious glance,
    My scanty robe you eye,
And count my curls, and measure where,
    Each flowing tress should lie:

And wonder why such tasteless wreaths
    Of faded flow'rs I wear,
And chide because I could not stay,
     To dress myself with care.

And when you ask to hear my song,
    And I begin to play,
You utter, 'that is out of tune,'
    And snatch the lyre away.

Now since you have so soon forgot,
    My service, and my truth,
My kindness to your childhood shewn,
    My friendship for your youth;

Go, seek some other muse, who loves
    Your heavy task to bear;
For since your ways so much are chang'd,
    I cast you from my care."

She spake, and hid her glowing face,
    Within the veil of night,
And gazing as the vision fled,
    I trembled with affright;
Then rose in sadness from my bed,
    And lo! I could not write.

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