 | The poetical works of Henry Kirke White |  |
TO MY LYRE.
Thou simple Lyre! thy music wild
Has served to charm the weary hour,
And many a lonely night has 'guiled,
When even pain has owned, and smiled,
Its fascinating power.
Has served to charm the weary hour,
And many a lonely night has 'guiled,
When even pain has owned, and smiled,
Its fascinating power.
Yet, O my Lyre! the busy crowd
Will little heed thy simple tones;
Them mightier minstrels harping loud
Engross,—and thou and I must shroud
Where dark oblivion 'thrones.
Will little heed thy simple tones;
Them mightier minstrels harping loud
Engross,—and thou and I must shroud
Where dark oblivion 'thrones.
No hand, thy diapason o'er,
Well skilled I throw with sweep sublime;
For me, no academic lore
Has taught the solemn strain to pour,
Or build the polished rhyme.
Well skilled I throw with sweep sublime;
For me, no academic lore
Has taught the solemn strain to pour,
Or build the polished rhyme.
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Yet thou to sylvan themes canst soar;
Thou know'st to charm the woodland train;
The rustic swains believe thy power
Can hush the wild winds when they roar,
And still the billowy main.
Thou know'st to charm the woodland train;
The rustic swains believe thy power
Can hush the wild winds when they roar,
And still the billowy main.
These honours, Lyre, we yet may keep,
I, still unknown, may live with thee,
And gentle zephyr's wing will sweep
Thy solemn string, where low I sleep
Beneath the alder tree.
I, still unknown, may live with thee,
And gentle zephyr's wing will sweep
Thy solemn string, where low I sleep
Beneath the alder tree.
This little dirge will please me more
Than the full requiem's swelling peal;
I'd rather than that crowds should sigh
For me, that from some kindred eye
The trickling tear should steal.
Than the full requiem's swelling peal;
I'd rather than that crowds should sigh
For me, that from some kindred eye
The trickling tear should steal.
Yet dear to me the wreath of bay,
Perhaps from me debarred;
And dear to me the classic zone,
Which, snatched from learning's laboured throne,
Adorns the accepted bard.
Perhaps from me debarred;
And dear to me the classic zone,
Which, snatched from learning's laboured throne,
Adorns the accepted bard.
And oh! if yet 'twere mine to dwell
Where Cam or Isis winds along,
Perchance, inspired with ardour chaste,
I yet might call the ear of taste
To listen to my song.
Where Cam or Isis winds along,
Perchance, inspired with ardour chaste,
I yet might call the ear of taste
To listen to my song.
Oh! then, my little friend, thy style
I'd change to happier lays,
Oh! then, the cloistered glooms should smile,
And through the long, the fretted aisle
Should swell the note of praise.
I'd change to happier lays,
Oh! then, the cloistered glooms should smile,
And through the long, the fretted aisle
Should swell the note of praise.
| The poetical works of Henry Kirke White | |