In other days when love was king,
Betimes I learned to woo,
And whoso asked me then to sing,
Could have a stave or two.

But now my Muse is lumpish grown,
And laughs at Cupid's token,
And my poor heart—'tis but a stone,
So hard—though often broken.

Thus as I pondered deep to-day,
And for invention panted,
My Muse grew bright as any fay,
Enchanting and enchanted!

And from her lips such music stole,
As never on this orb yet
Was heard, I cried: “My Muse! my soul!”
My Muse! 'Twas Mrs. Corbett.