Classic Poem

Hast thou upon the idle branches hung,
O Lyre! this livelong day,
Nor, as the sweet wind thro' the rose-leaves sung,
Uttered one dulcet lay?—
Come down! and by my rival touch be rung,
As tenderly as they!

Did not Alcæus with blood-streaming hand
Range o'er his trembling wire,
Stealing forth sounds more eloquently bland
Than softness could desire;
As if with myrtle-bough sweet Venus fanned
His rapt Lesboan lyre?

And shall not I, that never will imbrue
This hand except in wine;
My battle-field, a bed of violets blue,
Where conquered nymphs recline;
Shall not I wake the soul of sweetness too,
Thou gentle Lyre of mine?