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9
The Lyre.
“Thine was the meaning music of the heart.”
Thompson.
Thompson.
I
Dear Lyre, I hail thee! for I owe thee much,Melodious soother of my weary hours;
Obedient ever to thy mistress' touch,
That wakes to sympathy thy passive powers!
II
I come;—o'er thy elastic chords to flingThe essence of each floweret's rich perfume;
And fondly twine around thee as I sing,
A wreath of fragrance, wove in fancy's loom!
10
III
Oft as the star of eve unveil'd her light,To bathe its glories in the lucid streams;
Or twilight sunk upon the breast of night,
So oft thou'st wrapt me in elysian dreams!
IV
Oft as the trembling moon-beam stoop'd to sipThe od'rous drops, of rose-embosom'd dew;
Or quaff'd the nectar of the lily's lip,
So oft I've softly sung, and sigh'd to you!
V
Then o'er thy chords I pour'd a strain of woe,O'er thy responsive lays enraptur'd hung;
Thy lays in melting sympthy would flow,
Thy chords give back the woes to thee I sung!
VI
As true vibrative to the frolic lay,To every careless touch of laughing pleasure,
As wildly playful, and as sweetly gay,
As madly sportive was thy jocund measure!
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VII
Still, still, responsive to thy mistress' soul,Thy trembling chords my trembling tones return'd;
Amidst my sighs thy sighing accents stole,
With pathos melted, or with fervor burn'd!
VIII
And tho' Apollo's beam ne'er warm'd thy strain,Nor o'er thy chords love swept his purple wing,
Thou'st rapture raised to an extatic pain,
When genuine feeling only touch'd thy string!
IX
Rais'd the quick throb within the sensate heart,Awoke each dormant extacy of soul,
Seduc'd the sigh to heave,—the tear to start,
And o'er each finer nerve, her magic stole!
X
Oh, then to feeling's touch be sacred still,Still may she steal vibrations from thy string;
Still to her witching powers sweetly thrill,
And o'er each sense her soft enchantment fling!
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