The bidding of God, O Muse, obey. Fear not insult, ask not crown: Praise and blame take with indifference And dispute not with the fool! _August_, 1836. MY MUSE. IV. 1. In the days of my youth she was fond of me, And the seven-stemmed flute she handed me. To me with smile she listened; and already gently Along the openings echoing of the woods Was playing I with fingers tender: Both hymns solemn, god-inspired And peaceful song of Phrygian shepherd. From morn till night in oak's dumb shadow To the strange maid's teaching intent I listened; And with sparing reward me gladdening Tossing back her curls from her forehead dear, From my hands the flute herself she took. Now filled the wood was with breath divine And the heart with holy enchantment filled. 1823. MY DEMON. IV. 107. In those days when new to me were Of existence all impressions:-- The maiden's glances, the forests' whisper, The song of nightingale at night; When the sentiments elevated Of Freedom, glory and of love, And of art the inspiration Stirred deeply so my blood:-- My hopeful hours and joyful With melancholy sudden dark'ning A certain evil spirit then Began in secret me to visit. Grievous were our meetings, His smile, and his wonderful glance, His speeches, these so stinging Cold poison poured into my soul. Providence with slander Inexhaustible he tempted; Of Beauty as a dream he spake And inspiration he despised; Nor love, nor freedom trusted he, On life with scorn he looked-- And nought in all nature To bless he ever wished. 1823. REGRET. IV. 76. Not ye regret I, of spring my years, In dreams gone by of hopeless love; Not ye regret I, O mysteries of nights. By songstress passionate celebrated; Not ye, regret I, O my faithless friends Nor crowns of feasts, nor cups of circle, Nor ye regret I, O traitresses young-- To pleasures melancholy stranger am I. But where are ye, O moments tender Of young my hopes, of heartfelt peace? The former heat and grace of inspiration? Come again, O ye, of spring my years! REMINISCENCE. IV. 96. When noisy day to mortals quiet grows, And upon the city's silent walls Night's shadow half-transparent lies, And Sleep, of daily toils reward,-- Then for me are dragging in the silence Of wearying wakefulness the hours. In the sloth of night more scorching burn My heart's serpents' gnawing fangs; Boil my thoughts; my soul with grief oppressed Full of reveries sad is thronged. Before me memory in silence Its lengthy roll unfolds. And with disgust my life I reading Tremble I and curse it. Bitterly I moan, and bitterly my tears I shed, But wash away the lines of grief I cannot.