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Article THE POET'S FAREWELL TO HIS LYRE. Page 1 of 1
Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
The Poet's Farewell To His Lyre.
THE POET'S FAREWELL TO HIS LYRE .
THEY tell me I have cast aside The lyre , whose tone was once my pride , And that my gifted hand no more Wakes the wild strain it loved of yore ; That I have grown in feeling old , In spirit crush'd , in genius cold . Ah ! little deem they why lute
my To mirth and song alike is mute ; ' Why all its lighter tones are flown , And broken chords respond alone . My youth ' s warm hopes are past and fled , And all who loved me once are dead , Earth hath no smile of joy for me ; 'Tis a lone path—a shoreless sea
, A desert wide , without one stay , To guide me on life ' s dreary way ; Worthless to me the poet ' s name , Man ' s hollow praise , the wreath of fame ; A far more welcome wreath to me , Were one twined of the cypress tree . Why then to please a heartless throng , Wh
y should I wake the tone of song ? Why strike the deep notes of my lyre—Or waste on dross the poet ' s fire ? What to the world are Genius' strains , Its fitful cares , its ills , and pains ? It welcomes with a smile alone , The of mirththe lighter tone
song , , The jest , the revelry , and glee , The sparkling wit and repartee . Yet , ere I quit my sea-girt land , An exile for some foreign strand , Once more my hand shall wake thy spell , Bid in thy strains my last farewell .
Harp ! that long hath been unstrung , Harp ! o ' er which my soul hast hung , Enraptured with thy lays , I strike thy well known chords again , Once more invoke the tuneful strain To celebrate th y praise . Be this thlastthlatest theme
y , y , Then fading like a morning dream , Be hush'd my own loved lute ; Now wake thy boldest , sweetest breath , Let swan-like music tell thy death , Then be for ever mute . "
Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
The Poet's Farewell To His Lyre.
THE POET'S FAREWELL TO HIS LYRE .
THEY tell me I have cast aside The lyre , whose tone was once my pride , And that my gifted hand no more Wakes the wild strain it loved of yore ; That I have grown in feeling old , In spirit crush'd , in genius cold . Ah ! little deem they why lute
my To mirth and song alike is mute ; ' Why all its lighter tones are flown , And broken chords respond alone . My youth ' s warm hopes are past and fled , And all who loved me once are dead , Earth hath no smile of joy for me ; 'Tis a lone path—a shoreless sea
, A desert wide , without one stay , To guide me on life ' s dreary way ; Worthless to me the poet ' s name , Man ' s hollow praise , the wreath of fame ; A far more welcome wreath to me , Were one twined of the cypress tree . Why then to please a heartless throng , Wh
y should I wake the tone of song ? Why strike the deep notes of my lyre—Or waste on dross the poet ' s fire ? What to the world are Genius' strains , Its fitful cares , its ills , and pains ? It welcomes with a smile alone , The of mirththe lighter tone
song , , The jest , the revelry , and glee , The sparkling wit and repartee . Yet , ere I quit my sea-girt land , An exile for some foreign strand , Once more my hand shall wake thy spell , Bid in thy strains my last farewell .
Harp ! that long hath been unstrung , Harp ! o ' er which my soul hast hung , Enraptured with thy lays , I strike thy well known chords again , Once more invoke the tuneful strain To celebrate th y praise . Be this thlastthlatest theme
y , y , Then fading like a morning dream , Be hush'd my own loved lute ; Now wake thy boldest , sweetest breath , Let swan-like music tell thy death , Then be for ever mute . "