INVITA MINERVA.Vex not the Muse with idle prayers,—She will not hear thy call;She steals upon thee unawares,Or seeks thee not at all.Soft as the moonbeams when they soughtEndymion's fragrant bower,She parts the whispering leaves of thoughtTo show her full-blown flower.For thee her wooing hour has passed,The singing birds have flown,And winter comes with icy blastTo chill thy buds unblown.Yet, though the woods no longer thrillAs once their arches rung,Sweet echoes hover round thee stillOf songs thy summer sung.Live in thy past; await no moreThe rush of heaven-sent wings;Earth still has music left in storeWhile Memory sighs and sings.
I hope my special Minerva may not always be unwilling, but she must not be called upon as she has been in times past. Now that the teacups have left the table, an occasional evening call is all that my readers must look for. Thanking them for their kind companionship, and hoping that I may yet meet them in the now and then in the future, I bid them goodbye for the immediate present, then in the future, I bid them goodbye for the immediate present.