 | Poems |  |
322
IMPROMPTU
FOR SIR JULIUS BENEDICT, WHO ASKED ME FOR SOME LINES TO SET TO MUSIC.
[Give me a song to sing]
Give me a song to sing,
Poet, sound the lyre,
Strike from the rock the spring,
Smite from the flint the fire.
Poet, sound the lyre,
Strike from the rock the spring,
Smite from the flint the fire.
Give me to sing of Youth,
Of Hope, of Joy, of Beauty;
Give me to sing of Truth,
Of loyal Love, of Duty.
Of Hope, of Joy, of Beauty;
Give me to sing of Truth,
Of loyal Love, of Duty.
Singer, sweet singer, let me rest,
The harp unstrung falls from my hand,
Cold is the fire within my breast,
Dried are my springs of Promised Land.
The harp unstrung falls from my hand,
Cold is the fire within my breast,
Dried are my springs of Promised Land.
One mournful strain I still might breathe,
But that sad strain is not for thee,
With Hope's fresh buds thy temples wreathe,
Sing thou not yet of Memory.
But that sad strain is not for thee,
With Hope's fresh buds thy temples wreathe,
Sing thou not yet of Memory.
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