HENCE ! hence, each myrtle, rose, and twining wreath,
And all the fictions maddening poets give!
Oh! who in such an atmosphere could breathe?
Who but themselves can mid such follies live?
Tell me no more of soft Castalian dews,
Poetic visions on Parnassus’ steep;
All the Muse owns I would with joy refuse,
Give me but quiet, a clear sky, and sleep!
Oh! not o’er me has power, if ever found,
Union of form and mind so rarely given!
Nor looks, nor soften’d voice of silver sound,
Nor harp of harmony though stolen from heaven
No! o’er such charms I bear a potent spell,
And spurn’d their blandishments from earliest youth;
By water nymphs was drawn from some deep well,
And though Indifference call’d, my name is Truth,
Honest Truth.
(Mrs. Walter Spencer)
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