To Minerva

From the Greek

MY temples throb, my pulses boil,

I’m sick of Song, and Ode, and Ballad—

So Thyrsis, take the midnight oil,

And pour it on a lobster salad.

My brain is dull, my light is foul,

I cannot write a verse, or read,—

Then Pallas take away thine Owl,

And let us have a Lark instead.