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TO MY LYRE.
Has serv'd to charm the weary hour,
Will little heed thy simple tones ;
Well skilld, I throw with sweep sublime;
Thou know'st to charm the woodland train :
And still the billowy main.
I, still unknown, may live with thee,
Than the full requiem's swelling peal;
Perhaps from me debarrd ;
Where Cam, or Isis, winds along,
I'd change to happier lays,
Should swell the note of praise.