Poem by Margaret Chalmers

To the Muses

AVAUNT ! ye Nine; no more I sue
    For your capricious aid,
Since you could thus its power deny
    To an invoking maid.
So fair a vot'ry ne'er before
    Had breath'd Parnassian air,
Nor did Castalia's boasted stream
    E'er show a form so fair.
To see your shrine so highly grac'd,
    Quickly inflam'd your pride;
Confusion reign'd throughout the hill,
    And you the suit denied.
Mournful Melpomene declin'd
    Her tearful aid to lend;
And sage Historic Clio's brow
    No fav'ring smiles unbend.
When chearful Thalia, stepping forth,
    Cry'd "Sisters, why so shy?
"If fair Eliza will accept
    "My aid, her muse, am I."

1. Lines, on the Drawing Room of an Intimate Friend of the Author’s
2. On the Banks of the Esk
3. Address to the Evening Star
4. A Summer Sabbath Morn
5. The Rose of the Rock

William Blake To The Muses ("Whether on Ida's shady brow")

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