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TO MY LYRE.

AN ODE.

I.
THOU simple Lyre !--Thy music wild

Has serv'd to charm the weary hour,
And many a lonely night has 'guild,
When even pain has own'd, and smild,
Its fascinating power.

II.
Yet, oh my Lyre! the busy crowd

Will little heed thy simple tones ;
Them, mightier minstrels harping loud
Engross,—and thou, and I, must shroud
Where dark oblivion 'thrones.

III.
No hand, thy diapason o'er,

Well skilld, 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,

I, still unknown, may live with thee,
And gentle zephyr's wing will sweep
Thy solemn string, where low I sleep,
Beneath the alder tree.

VI.
This little dirge will please ne more

Than the full requiem's swelling peal;
I'd rather than that crouds should sigh
For me, that from some kindred eye
The trickling tear should steal.

VII.
Yet dear to me the wreath of bay,

Perhaps from me debarrd ;
And dear to me the classic zone,
Which snatch'd from learning's labour'd throne,
Adorns the accepted bard.

VIII.
And 0! if yet 'twere mine to dwell

Where Cam, or Isis, winds along,
Perchance, inspir'd with ardour chaste,
I yet might call the ear of taste
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.

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1r Barb 7

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