Classic Poem

Give me the lyre of harmony
To calm the passions of my soul,
O, wake its choral symphony,
And bid it with my griefs condole.

Sweet are the echoes of its strings,
Sweet as the sylvan choir of May,
When on the rose the robin sings,
And hails with song the rising day.

And though the storm, that gathers round,
Be cold as winter's blasting wind,
Still can this lyre's bewitching sound
Beguile my lorn and widowed mind.

Though love is fled, and friends are gone,
This lyre, my solace, lingers nigh:—
O, leave me not to droop alone,
But be thy music whispering by!

And what shall ease my troubled heart?
Shall Roslin's voice of sorrow flow,
Or shall thy trembling chords impart
A deeper, darker strain of woe?

I hear it swell,—the death-march rings,
The muffled drum is rolling by,
The burning tear of sorrow springs
And trickles from the melting eye.

The bier, with slow and solemn tread,
Attired in sables, steals along,
And o'er the grave's cold, earthy bed
The minstrel pours his broken song.

The notes ascend,—the shriek and scream
Alternate mingle in the lay;
They fall,—like night's unreal dream,
The wail of anguish melts away.

Again it strikes the watchful ear,
Convulsed with sobs and choked with sighs;
What bursts of agony I hear,—
A groan as when a sinner dies!

How sweet, when sorrow clouds the soul,
To hear thy strains funereal flow,
To hear the burst of anguish roll,
And listen to the wail of woe!

And when my heart is flowing o'er,
Come, weave thy choral symphony,
Come, bid my bosom ache no more,
Thou witching lyre of harmony.