Invocation To My Muse Poem by Edward Henry Bickersteth

And does my Muse refuse to sing,
And will she not one wild note bring
The opening Spring to greet?
Spring sheds her soft refreshing showers,
And lovers seek her fragrant bowers,
Each echo to repeat.
Come then, sweet Spring, recal each tone,
And deign to make my harp thine own,
'Tis still to feeling true;
Its chords the softest zephyrs wake,
A wanton hand its strings may break;
The task I leave with you.
Oft has it passed a painful hour,
Oft armed me 'gainst the Tempter's pow'r,
And calmed each troubled thought;
Taught my desponding soul to climb
Beyond the narrow bounds of time,
With heavenly visions fraught.
Oft loved dear childhood's joys to tell,
And o'er the spring of love to dwell,
Which ne'er returns again;
Told of sweet infancy and youth,
And softly swelled with heavenly truth,
Then ceased with earthly pain.
And cease it must; for I no more
On fancy's pinions now may soar,
My votive offering bring:
For poesy no lovely flowers
Can bring to deck thy rosy bowers,
Fairest of seasons, Spring!