 | [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet |  |
THE LYRE
“There is a living spirit in the lyre.”
Montgomery
Montgomery
Grant me the spirit of the Lyre,
And skill to touch its tuneful strings;
Breathe on my soul a poet's fire,
And fancy's pure imaginings:
Then let the storms of fortune fall,
In darkness round the dawning day,
Let torturing memory lift the pall
Of gone-by years, discovering all
The joys which time hath swept away.
And skill to touch its tuneful strings;
Breathe on my soul a poet's fire,
And fancy's pure imaginings:
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In darkness round the dawning day,
Let torturing memory lift the pall
Of gone-by years, discovering all
The joys which time hath swept away.
Oh! I will smile amid the storm,
If laurels of the lyre adorn
My brow, though penury rear her form,
And proud ones dart the glance of scorn.
If laurels of the lyre adorn
My brow, though penury rear her form,
And proud ones dart the glance of scorn.
The breathings of the minstrel's lyre
Remain when he who gave them birth,
And touched their strains with living fire,
Has passed beyond the thrall of earth.
And far their quenchless beacon glow,
On time's oblivious tide appears,
In all their mournful forms to show
The wrecks that throng its course, and throw
A light upon the tomb of years.
Remain when he who gave them birth,
And touched their strains with living fire,
Has passed beyond the thrall of earth.
And far their quenchless beacon glow,
On time's oblivious tide appears,
In all their mournful forms to show
The wrecks that throng its course, and throw
A light upon the tomb of years.
Minstrels of power! your deathless lays,
First roused my heart with rapture high,
And kindled in that heart a blaze,
Partaking of your energy.
High masters of the Lyre! what though
Between us ocean's surges roll,
They cannot check the rapturous flow
Of joys that worldlings never know—
The pure communion of the soul.
First roused my heart with rapture high,
And kindled in that heart a blaze,
Partaking of your energy.
High masters of the Lyre! what though
Between us ocean's surges roll,
They cannot check the rapturous flow
Of joys that worldlings never know—
The pure communion of the soul.
Haverhill Gazette, April 21, 1827
| [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet | |