WE know not, on these hills of ours,
The fabled asphodel of Greece,
That filleth with immortal flowers
Fields where the heroes are at peace!
Not ours are myrtle buds like these
That breathe o’er isles where memories dwell
Of Sappho, in enchanted seas!
We meet not, on our upland moor,
The singing Maid of Helicon,
You may not hear her music pure
Float on the mountain meres withdrawn;
The Muse of Greece, the Muse is gone!
But we have songs that please us well
And flowers we love to look upon.
More sweet than Southern myrtles far
The bruised Marsh-myrtle breatheth keen;
Parnassus names the flower, the star,
That shines among the well-heads green
The bright Marsh-asphodels between—
Marsh-myrtle and Marsh-asphodel
May crown the Northern Muse a queen