1
Awake, awake, ye slumb’ring Nine!
And fill with energy divine
Of verse a humble Daughter,
Who, smit with love of sacred song
At inspiration’s fount has long
Quaff’d the Castalian water.
2
Whether with charming Moore ye stray
In old Anacreon’s devious way
Or with dear Skeffy toy;
With monks and ghosts fill Lewis’ head
Or still o’er Byron’s revels shed
A melancholy joy:
3
Whether, with Scott, o’er Tow’r and Town
And Loch and Brae for flight ye bowne,
Or with the Laureat sore;
Or with pathetic Rosa weep,
Or with Fitzgerald’s hearers sleep
Amid the loyal roar;
4
Whether at classic Thurlow’s side
Ye sing to charm his new-made bride,
Or, clad in simplest vest,
By Windermere’s romantic lake
Your morn and ev’ning walks ye take
With Wordsworth and the rest,
5
Hear and attend! — Descend and sing!
To rapture tune each trembling string!
Great Aircastle’s approach
To this, his scientific reign,
Must now be sun in loftiest strain,
For hark! — I hear his coach.
6
O thou! — Mecaenas of the age!
Artistic, chemic, classic sage,
Soul of inventions new!
Electric and mechanic art
Mnemonics, music, all impart
A matchless grace to you!
7
And oh! — if fancy’s humbler flights,
Or pen that sweet romance indicts,
That lofty soul may charm,
Permit a sad and widow’d dame
To kindle at thy living flame
A spark her breast to warm!
8
But Ah! “a widow’d dame,” said I?
That word new fills each tear-fraught eye,
Wakes woe that erst did sleep;
No more the tuneful period flows
With aught but Artemisia’s woes,
And I can nought by weep!
9
Come then, my tears, speak tomes of grief,
And Aircastle shall give relief
B’ Electromagus’ hand;
No more with unavailing woe
I rave, but strains pathetic flow
O’er all th’ admiring land!
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