The Harp
A WAKE , wild harp, to rapture wake,
And pour the sacred strain along,
Bid hill, and dale, and fen, and brake,
Responsive echo to the song.
Awake to joy, wild harp, awake,
And Inspiration's accents take.
Too long the song remains unsung,
Too long the lyre remains unstrung;
Too long the strain has ceas'd to flow,
Or only echo'd notes of woe:
Then Inspiration's accents take,
Awake to joy, wild harp, awake.
Oh C OLLINS ! sweetest of the train,
Where is thy heaven-strung lyre?
Oh! but to sweep a transient strain,
Or trike a wandering wire!
The power should wake, the rapture roll,
The deep impression seize the soul,
And Pity start from Sorrow's shrine,
To own the meanest note divine:
But thy seraphic lay is o'er,
Thy airy reed shall sound no more;
Beneath the sod that covers thee
Sleep all the powers of harmony.
And is there none to sweep the string,
Not one to rise on Rapture's wing,
And shall the heavenly harp be found
Unstrung and useless on the ground?
Oh! might a trembling votary dare
To touch the chords neglected there;
Methinks one moment to beguile,
Success the daring deed should crown,
And tho' the Muses did not smile,
They could not, would not wear a frown.
Then wake, wild harp, thy boldest strain,
And bid the poet live again;
Oh! bid revive that sacred lay,
Which tun'd Creation's natal day,
Which spread the earth from pole to pole,
And taught the planets how to roll.
Alas! that heavenly strain is gone,
On wings of winds the Muse is flown;
The song is sung, the lay is o'er,
The harp has slept to wake no more.
Yes, it has slept to wake no more;
No more to all that charm'd before.
No more to strains the heavens inspire,
No more to all the poet's fire.
Some still with feet unhallow'd tread
The chambers of th' illustrious dead,
And, unreflecting where they stray,
Mimic the mighty master's lay.
But these are mortal, these are men—
Their harps but wake to sleep again:
While his has shook the dome of Fame,
And crown'd him with a lofty name,
Which proudly register'd on high,
Shall never perish, never die!
And pour the sacred strain along,
Bid hill, and dale, and fen, and brake,
Responsive echo to the song.
Awake to joy, wild harp, awake,
And Inspiration's accents take.
Too long the song remains unsung,
Too long the lyre remains unstrung;
Too long the strain has ceas'd to flow,
Or only echo'd notes of woe:
Then Inspiration's accents take,
Awake to joy, wild harp, awake.
Oh C OLLINS ! sweetest of the train,
Where is thy heaven-strung lyre?
Oh! but to sweep a transient strain,
Or trike a wandering wire!
The power should wake, the rapture roll,
The deep impression seize the soul,
And Pity start from Sorrow's shrine,
To own the meanest note divine:
But thy seraphic lay is o'er,
Thy airy reed shall sound no more;
Beneath the sod that covers thee
Sleep all the powers of harmony.
And is there none to sweep the string,
Not one to rise on Rapture's wing,
And shall the heavenly harp be found
Unstrung and useless on the ground?
Oh! might a trembling votary dare
To touch the chords neglected there;
Methinks one moment to beguile,
Success the daring deed should crown,
And tho' the Muses did not smile,
They could not, would not wear a frown.
Then wake, wild harp, thy boldest strain,
And bid the poet live again;
Oh! bid revive that sacred lay,
Which tun'd Creation's natal day,
Which spread the earth from pole to pole,
And taught the planets how to roll.
Alas! that heavenly strain is gone,
On wings of winds the Muse is flown;
The song is sung, the lay is o'er,
The harp has slept to wake no more.
Yes, it has slept to wake no more;
No more to all that charm'd before.
No more to strains the heavens inspire,
No more to all the poet's fire.
Some still with feet unhallow'd tread
The chambers of th' illustrious dead,
And, unreflecting where they stray,
Mimic the mighty master's lay.
But these are mortal, these are men—
Their harps but wake to sleep again:
While his has shook the dome of Fame,
And crown'd him with a lofty name,
Which proudly register'd on high,
Shall never perish, never die!
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.