There by her own bright Attic flood,
The blue-eyed Queen of Wisdom stood;--
Not as she haunts the sage's dreams,
With brow unveiled, divine, severe;
But softened as on bards she beams
When fresh from Poesy's high sphere
A music not her own she brings,
And thro' the veil which Fancy flings
O'er her stern features gently sings.
But who is he--that urchin nigh,
With quiver on the rose-trees hung,
Who seems just dropt from yonder sky,
And stands to watch that maid with eye
So full of thought for one so young?--
That child--but, silence! lend thine ear,
And thus in song the tale thou'lt hear:--
SONG.
As Love one summer eve was straying,
Who should he see at that soft hour
But young Minerva gravely playing
Her flute within an olive bower.
I need not say, 'tis Love's opinion
That grave or merry, good or ill,
The sex all bow to his dominion,
As woman will be woman still.
Tho' seldom yet the boy hath given
To learned dames his smiles or sighs,
So handsome Pallas looked that even
Love quite forgot the maid was wise.
Besides, a youth of his discerning
Knew well that by a shady rill
At sunset hour whate'er her learning
A woman will be woman still.
Her flute he praised in terms extatic,--
Wishing it dumb, nor cared how soon.
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