Rest, O my lyre! till the winter of sorrow

Rest, O my lyre! till the winter of sorrow
Is gone, and the spring-tide of pleasure return:
It may kindle its smile ere the dawn of to-morrow,
And shake the sweet dews of delight from its urn.
Then let thy strings, brushed by fancy's light wings,
Breathe the music of joy in the listener's ear:
Then let thy note, like the nightingale's, float,
Lighting rapture's gay smile, stealing pity's soft tear.

Though I should tune to the key-note of gladness
Thy chords, yet the blast of the winter's chill wind
Would wake them to naught but the moaning of sadness,
To an air that would sink, not enliven the mind.
Rest then, my lyre, awhile!—rest till with vernal smile
Spring decks the mead and enkindles the grove;
Then let the zephyr's wings brush gently o'er thy strings,
Waking them all to the music of love.

Now I am sorrowful,—tears give me pleasure:
Hush then thy music,—be silent my lyre!
For thy strings, tuned to grief's mournfullest measure,
Wake in my heart an enlivening fire;
When pleasure wreathes my head, and sorrow's tear has fled,
Then let the wind kiss thy chords as it flies,
Wafting a strain along, sweet as the robin's song,
Bidding joy sparkle in beauty's blue eyes.

Lyre of my soul! sorrow's dark clouds are breaking;
Smiles through their gloom the clear azure of bliss,
Every sweet warbler of rapture is waking,
Every vale listens to love's fondest kiss.
Now to the passing wind be all thy chords resigned,
Let each gay pinion, that shines in its wing,
Wake all thy melody, swell all thy wild notes high,
Till rock and wood with thy ecstasy ring.
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