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TO ------

Lady—the lyre thou bid'st me take,
No more can breathe the minstrel strain;
The cold and trembling notes I wake,
Fall on the ear like plashing rain;
For days of suffering and of pain,
And nights that lull'd no care for me,
Have tamed my spirit,—then in vain
Thou bid'st me wake my harp for thee.
But could I sweep my ocean lyre,
As once this feeble hand could sweep,
Or catch once more the thought of fire,
That lit the Mizen's stormy steep,
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Or bid the fancy cease to sleep,
That once could soar on pinion free,
And dream I was not born to weep;
O then I'd wake my harp for thee.
And now 'tis only friendship's call,
That bids my slumbering lyre awake,
It long hath slept in sorrow's hall,
Again that slumber it must seek;
Not even the light of beauty's cheek,
Or blue eye beaming kind and free,
Can bid its mournful numbers speak;
Then lady, ask no lay from me.
Yet if on Desmond's mountain wild,
By glens I love, or ocean cave,
Nature once more should own her child,
And give the strength that once she gave;
If he who lights my path should save
And what I was I yet may be;
Then lady, by green Erin's wave,
I'll gladly wake my harp for thee.
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