Canto XXXVII
Urania speaks with darken’d brow:‘Thou pratest here where thou art least;This faith has many a purer priest,And many an abler voice than thou:
Go down beside thy native rill,On thy Parnassus set thy feet,And hear thy laurel whisper sweetAbout the ledges of the hill.’
And my Melpomene replies,A touch of shame upon her cheek:‘I am not worthy but to speakOf thy prevailing mysteries;
For I am but an earthly Muse,And owning but a little artTo lull with song an aching heart,And render human love his dues;
But brooding on the dear one dead,And all he said of things divine,(And dear as sacramental wineTo dying lips is all he said).
I murmur’d, as I came along,Of comfort clasp’d in truth reveal’d;And loiter’d in the master’s field,And darken’d sanctities with song.’