Classic Poem

AND DOST THOU LOVE THE LYRE ?

I.

And dost thou love the Lyre,
Those strains the Nine inspire?
Ah! beware the spell,
Some have proved too well,
Nor follow a wandering fire, Mary!

II.

For genius is only a dream,
An ignis fatuus gleam,
That just lends its light;
But — when sorrow's night
Is deepest — withdraws its beam, Mary!

III.

'Tis a passionate sense refined,
That spells the enthusiast's mind;
That bids him cope
With life's storms, and hope
For a haven he never may find, Mary!

IV.

As the hues of the mimic bow,
Arching the cataract's brow,
Though they sweetly shine,
And seem half divine,
Are but types of the chaos below, Mary!

V.

So the glittering tints that rest,
On Genius' star-bright crest,
May lovelily glow,
While despair and woe
Hold their strife in his lonely breast, Mary!

VI.

Some have envied the Minstrel's art,
Unknowing his oft-felt smart;
But this never might be,
Could they once but see
A minstrel's inmost heart, Mary!

VII.

It hath fibres so finely wrought,
And depths with such feelings fraught,
That a word may break
Or to melody wake
Each chord in that Lyre of thought, Mary!

VIII.

Even when Pleasure her fingers flings
O'er its most attenuate strings,
In the passionate swells
Which her touch compels,
It oft wails while to gladness it rings, Mary!

IX.

But when Grief's wild ruthless hand
Doth its tremulous chords command,
They break in her clasp,
For so rude a grasp
They never were formed to withstand, Mary!

X.

Then do not love the Lyre,
Those strains the Nine inspire,
But beware the spell,
Some have proved too well,
Nor follow a wandering fire, Mary!