FRAGMENT XXIX.
[Here, Iris, pr'ythee take my lyre]
“Un dolz plosar, non vaut quatorez ris.”
Guilem Æsmir.
Here, Iris, pr'ythee take my lyre,
No more its pathos or its fire
Shall wrap me in delusive bliss,
Its chords my flying fingers kiss,
Nor to its sweet responsive string
Her song of soul thy mistress sing,
And hang upon yon willow's bough
The myrtle wreath that twined her brow:
Thou know'st by whom that wreath was gather'd,
Thou seest how soon that wreath is wither'd.
Oh! quick the emblem-gift remove;
I cannot sing, and must not love,
Or touch the lyre, or myrtle wear,
Exempt from bliss, and free from care.
Henceforth flow on, my torpid hours;
Indifference! I hail thy powers!
Come, and each keen sensation lull,
And make me languishingly dull,
While thus I offer at thy shrine
What (oh Indifference!) ne'er was thine,
The raptured sigh, the glowing tear,
The fervid hope, the anxious fear,
The blissful thrill, the anguish'd woe,
The freezing doubt, the feeling glow;
Nay, take the ling'ring wish to please,
But give, oh! give thy vot'rist ease.
