 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
THE MINSTREL'S FAREWELL TO HIS LYRE.
When Fate's stern fiat dooms fond friends to part,
What thrilling pangs pervade the feeling heart!
With ardent glow the proffered hand is pressed,
While the moist eye bespeaks the aching breast;
The final gaze, we, lingering still renew,
Dreading the last, the painful word—Adieu!
What thrilling pangs pervade the feeling heart!
With ardent glow the proffered hand is pressed,
While the moist eye bespeaks the aching breast;
The final gaze, we, lingering still renew,
Dreading the last, the painful word—Adieu!
So I—a bird of passage—wont to rove—
Have oft been doomed to leave the friends I love;
Have oft been fated to endure the smart
Which now afflicts my lacerated heart;
That heart alive to every finer glow,
Enrapturing joy—or ecstacy of wo.
Then, friends of song, attend your Minstrel's lay,
He sings but this, and throws his lyre away.
Have oft been doomed to leave the friends I love;
Have oft been fated to endure the smart
Which now afflicts my lacerated heart;
That heart alive to every finer glow,
Enrapturing joy—or ecstacy of wo.
Then, friends of song, attend your Minstrel's lay,
He sings but this, and throws his lyre away.
287
In life's fair morn, when sunshine warmed the scene,
And fairy hopes danced o'er the laughing green,
His infant Muse essayed the artless strain,
On Charles's bank, or Newton's verdant plain;
Gave him her lyre, and taught his hand to play,
While flattering Echo chanted back the lay.
And fairy hopes danced o'er the laughing green,
His infant Muse essayed the artless strain,
On Charles's bank, or Newton's verdant plain;
Gave him her lyre, and taught his hand to play,
While flattering Echo chanted back the lay.
Pleased like a child, he fondly thought 't was Fame,
Ambition kindled, and he sought the dame;
Unknowing where her lofty temple stood,
He pierced the grotto and explored the wood;
But vain the search, in meadow, vale, or hill,
The air-formed phantom flew, but answered still,
Till tired Experience proved the sylvan scene
Held not the temple of ambition's queen.
Ambition kindled, and he sought the dame;
Unknowing where her lofty temple stood,
He pierced the grotto and explored the wood;
But vain the search, in meadow, vale, or hill,
The air-formed phantom flew, but answered still,
Till tired Experience proved the sylvan scene
Held not the temple of ambition's queen.
With fond regret he left the calm retreat,
Where Nature's charms in sweet disorder meet,
Diversified with meadows, groves, and hills,
And Charles's thousand tributary rills—
Left rustic joys, to court the city's smile,
And woke the strain in Beauty's cause awhile.
He sang of love—a minstrel's sweetest dream,
And sang sincerely—for he felt the theme;
His soul was poured in every amorous tone—
An angel heard, and answered with her own.
Where Nature's charms in sweet disorder meet,
Diversified with meadows, groves, and hills,
And Charles's thousand tributary rills—
Left rustic joys, to court the city's smile,
And woke the strain in Beauty's cause awhile.
He sang of love—a minstrel's sweetest dream,
And sang sincerely—for he felt the theme;
His soul was poured in every amorous tone—
An angel heard, and answered with her own.
288
Columbia called—to arms her veterans sprang,
He felt the impulse, and of glory sang;
Swept o'er the chords, assumed a loftier lay,
And vent'rous dared with bolder hand to play.
He felt the impulse, and of glory sang;
Swept o'er the chords, assumed a loftier lay,
And vent'rous dared with bolder hand to play.
But, ah! his harp no blooming laurel bears,
His humble brow no blushing garland wears;
Unknown, unsought, he must obscurely sigh,
Held from despair but by affection's tie;
By love and penury condemned to know,
Like Leda's sons, alternate bliss and wo.
His humble brow no blushing garland wears;
Unknown, unsought, he must obscurely sigh,
Held from despair but by affection's tie;
By love and penury condemned to know,
Like Leda's sons, alternate bliss and wo.
Then Fame, adieu! no more he courts your charms;
Welcome, Retirement! take him to your arms;
Here, gentle Muse, he gives you back the lyre,
Whose tones could once his youthful bosom fire.
That lyre shall sleep, nor breathe a tone again,
Till scenes celestial claim the glowing strain;
Till realms eternal burst upon the view,
And animate the wondering bard anew.
Till then, farewell! He follows Fame no more!
But spurns the shrine at which he knelt before—
Let Poverty prepare her bitterest draught,
And malice barb his most inveterate shaft—
The troubled dream of life will soon be o'er,
And a bright morning dawn to fade no more.
Welcome, Retirement! take him to your arms;
Here, gentle Muse, he gives you back the lyre,
Whose tones could once his youthful bosom fire.
That lyre shall sleep, nor breathe a tone again,
Till scenes celestial claim the glowing strain;
Till realms eternal burst upon the view,
And animate the wondering bard anew.
Till then, farewell! He follows Fame no more!
But spurns the shrine at which he knelt before—
Let Poverty prepare her bitterest draught,
And malice barb his most inveterate shaft—
The troubled dream of life will soon be o'er,
And a bright morning dawn to fade no more.
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |