 | Poems by Three Friends |  |
90
TO MY LYRE.
And said I to my lyre adieu,
And did I strive the ties to sever
That bound me to a friend so true,
And bid its numbers sleep for ever?
And did I strive the ties to sever
That bound me to a friend so true,
And bid its numbers sleep for ever?
Yes! in the gloomy hour of sadness,
When first the faithless --- frowned,
And drove me to the verge of madness,
I rudely hushed its soothing sound.
When first the faithless --- frowned,
And drove me to the verge of madness,
I rudely hushed its soothing sound.
And, deeply racked with care and pain,
With bursting heart and aching eye,
I vowed my hand should ne'er again
Awake its dulcet melody.
With bursting heart and aching eye,
I vowed my hand should ne'er again
Awake its dulcet melody.
91
Though once were poured in beauty's ear,
The lays which ---'s lips approving,
Eased my torn bosom of its fear,
And heightened all the joys of loving.—
The lays which ---'s lips approving,
Eased my torn bosom of its fear,
And heightened all the joys of loving.—
Doomed in youth's early morn to know
That fled are those gay dreams of pleasure,
To soothe the pangs of sleepless woe,
The lyre is now my only treasure.
That fled are those gay dreams of pleasure,
To soothe the pangs of sleepless woe,
The lyre is now my only treasure.
Yes, soother of the lonely hour!
Thy chords can lull my heart to rest,
When memory paints the halcyon bower
Where, lapt in love, my life was blest.
Thy chords can lull my heart to rest,
When memory paints the halcyon bower
Where, lapt in love, my life was blest.
Then shall I bid thy notes adieu,
And hush thy warbling strings? No, never!
The tie that binds my soul to you,
The hand of death alone shall sever.
And hush thy warbling strings? No, never!
The tie that binds my soul to you,
The hand of death alone shall sever.
92
Then pendent from the drooping willow,
The only mourner o'er my tomb,
Soft-murmuring o'er my earthy pillow,
Thy notes shall weep my early doom.
The only mourner o'er my tomb,
Soft-murmuring o'er my earthy pillow,
Thy notes shall weep my early doom.
And haply in the solemn sound
That breathes thy master's elegy,
His spirit, fondly hovering round,
Shall join the solemn minstrelsy.
That breathes thy master's elegy,
His spirit, fondly hovering round,
Shall join the solemn minstrelsy.
| Poems by Three Friends | |