TO MY LYRE. AN ODE. I. THOU simple Lyre !--Thy music wild II. Yet, oh my Lyre! the busy crowd Them, mightier minstrels harping loud Where dark oblivion 'thrones. III. No hand, thy diapason o'er, Well skill'd, I throw with sweep sublime; For me, no academic lore Has taught the solemn strain, to pour, Or build the polish'd rhyme. IV. 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. V. These honours, Lyre, we yet may keep, VI. This little dirge will please me more VII. Yet dear to me the wreath of bay, And dear to me the classic zone, Which snatch'd from learning's labour'd throne, Adorns the accepted bard. VIII. And O! if yet 'twere mine to dwell To listen to my song. IX. Oh! then, my little friend, thy style I'd change to happier lays, Oh! then, the cloister'd glooms should smile, And through the long the fretted aisle Should swell the note of praise. |