TO AUSTIN DOBSON

Yes! urban is your Muse, and owns

An empire based on London stones;

Yet flow'rs, as mountain violets sweet,

Spring from the pavement‘ neath her feet.

Of wilder birth this Muse of mine,

Hill-cradled, and baptized with brine;

And‘ tis for her a sweet despair

To watch that courtly step and air!

Yet surely she, without reproof,

Greeting may send from realms aloof,

And even claim a tie in blood,

And dare to deem it sisterhood.

For well we know, those Maidens be

All daughters of Mnemosyne;

And‘ neath the unifying sun,

Many the songs — but Song is one.