Classic Poem

My LYRE ! oh, let thy soothing power
Beguile once more the lonely hour;
Thy music ever serves to cheer,
To quell the sigh and chase the tear.
Thy notes can ever wile away
The sleepless night and weary day;
And howsoe'er the world may tire,
I care not while I've thee, my Lyre!

None were around to mark and praise
The breathings of thy first, rude lays;
But many a chiding taunt was thrown
To mock and crush thy earliest tone.
'Twas harshly done—yet, ah! how vain
The cruel hope to mar thy strain;
For the stern words that bade us part
But bound thee closer to my heart.

Let the bright laurel-wreath belong
To prouder harps of classic song;
I'll be content that thou shouldst bear
The wild flowers children love to wear.
If warmth be round thy chords, my Lyre,
'Tis Nature that shall yield the fire;
If one responsive tone be found,
'Tis Nature that shall yield the sound.

Gold may be scant—I ask it not;
There's peace with little—fairly got.
The hearts I prize may sadly prove
False to my hopes, my trust, my love.
Let all grow dark around, but still
I find a balm for every ill:
However cheqnered fate may be,
I find wealth, joy, and friends in thee.

What are the titles monarchs hold?—
Mere sounding nothings, bought and sold;
The highest rank that man can gain,
Fortune may bribe or fools attain.
But they who sweep the glowing strings,
Mock the supremacy of kings:
The Minstrel's skill is dearer far
Than Glory's crown or Triumph's car.

My Lyre! I feel thy chords are rife
With music ending but with life:
When the ‘cold chain’ shall round thee dwell,
'Twill bind this fervid breast as well.
My Lyre! my Lyre! I hang o'er thee
With lifted brow and bended knee,
And cry aloud, ‘For every bliss
I thank thee, GOD ! but most for this.’