Where the roving rill meander'd
Down the green retiring vale,
Poor, forlorn A LCÆUS wander'd,
Pale with thought, serenely pale:
Timeless sorrow o'er his face
Breathed a melancholy grace,
And fix'd on every feature there
The mournful resignation of despair.
O'er his arm, his lyre neglected,
Once his dear companion, hung,
And, in spirit deep dejected,
Thus the pensive poet sung;
While at midnight's solemn noon,
Sweetly shone the cloudless moon,
And all the stars, around his head,
Benignly bright, their mildest influence shed.
" Lyre! O Lyre! my chosen treasure,
Solace of my bleeding heart;
Lyre! O Lyre! my only pleasure,
We must now for ever part;
For in vain thy poet sings,
Wooes in vain thine heavenly strings;
The Muse's wretched sons are born
To cold neglect, and penury, and scorn.
" That which A LEXANDER sigh'd for,
That which C ÆSAR'S soul possess'd,
That which heroes, kings, have died for —
Glory! — animates my breast:
Hark! the charging trumpets' throats
Pour their death-defying notes;
" To arms!" they call: to arms I fly,
Like W OLFE to conquer, and like W OLFE to die.
" Soft! — the blood of murder'd legions
Summons vengeance from the skies;
Flaming towns and ravaged regions,
All in awful judgment rise. —
O then, innocently brave,
I will wrestle with the wave;
Lo! Commerce spreads the daring sail,
And yokes her naval chariots to the gale.
" Blow, ye breezes! — gently blowing,
Waft me to that happy shore,
Where, from fountains ever flowing,
Indian realms their treasures pour;
Thence returning, poor in health,
Rich in honesty and wealth,
O'er thee, my dear paternal soil,
I'll strew the golden harvest of my toil.
" Then shall Misery's sons and daughters
In their lowly dwellings sing:
Bounteous as the Nile's dark waters,
Undiscover'd as their spring,
I will scatter o'er the land
Blessings with a secret hand;
For such angelic tasks design'd,
I give the lyre and sorrow to the wind. "
On an oak, whose branches hoary
Sigh'd to every passing breeze,
Sigh'd and told the simple story
Of the patriarch of trees;
High in air his harp he hung,
Now no more to rapture strung;
Then warm in hope, no longer pale,
He blush'd adieu, and rambled down the dale.
Lightly touch'd by fairy fingers,
Hark! — the Lyre enchants the wind;
Fond A LCÆUS listens, lingers
— Lingering, listening, looks behind.
Now the music mounts on high,
Sweetly swelling through the sky;
To every tone, with tender heat,
His heart-strings vibrate, and his pulses beat.
Now the strains to silence stealing,
Soft in ecstasies expire;
Oh! with what romantic feeling
Poor A LCÆUS grasps the Lyre.
Lo! his furious hand he flings
In a tempest o'er the strings;
He strikes the chords so quick, so loud,
'Tis J OVE that scatters lightning from a cloud.
" Lyre! O Lyre! my chosen treasure,
Solace of my bleeding heart;
Lyre! O Lyre! my only pleasure,
We will never, never part:
Glory, Commerce, now in vain
Tempt me to the field, the main;
The Muse's sons are blest, though born
To cold neglect, and penury, and scorn.
" What, though all the world neglect me,
Shall my haughty soul repine?
And shall poverty deject me,
While this hallow'd Lyre is mine?
Heaven — that o'er my helpless head
Many a wrathful vial shed, —
Heaven gave this Lyre, — and thus decreed,
Be thou a bruised , but not a broken reed. "
Down the green retiring vale,
Poor, forlorn A LCÆUS wander'd,
Pale with thought, serenely pale:
Timeless sorrow o'er his face
Breathed a melancholy grace,
And fix'd on every feature there
The mournful resignation of despair.
O'er his arm, his lyre neglected,
Once his dear companion, hung,
And, in spirit deep dejected,
Thus the pensive poet sung;
While at midnight's solemn noon,
Sweetly shone the cloudless moon,
And all the stars, around his head,
Benignly bright, their mildest influence shed.
" Lyre! O Lyre! my chosen treasure,
Solace of my bleeding heart;
Lyre! O Lyre! my only pleasure,
We must now for ever part;
For in vain thy poet sings,
Wooes in vain thine heavenly strings;
The Muse's wretched sons are born
To cold neglect, and penury, and scorn.
" That which A LEXANDER sigh'd for,
That which C ÆSAR'S soul possess'd,
That which heroes, kings, have died for —
Glory! — animates my breast:
Hark! the charging trumpets' throats
Pour their death-defying notes;
" To arms!" they call: to arms I fly,
Like W OLFE to conquer, and like W OLFE to die.
" Soft! — the blood of murder'd legions
Summons vengeance from the skies;
Flaming towns and ravaged regions,
All in awful judgment rise. —
O then, innocently brave,
I will wrestle with the wave;
Lo! Commerce spreads the daring sail,
And yokes her naval chariots to the gale.
" Blow, ye breezes! — gently blowing,
Waft me to that happy shore,
Where, from fountains ever flowing,
Indian realms their treasures pour;
Thence returning, poor in health,
Rich in honesty and wealth,
O'er thee, my dear paternal soil,
I'll strew the golden harvest of my toil.
" Then shall Misery's sons and daughters
In their lowly dwellings sing:
Bounteous as the Nile's dark waters,
Undiscover'd as their spring,
I will scatter o'er the land
Blessings with a secret hand;
For such angelic tasks design'd,
I give the lyre and sorrow to the wind. "
On an oak, whose branches hoary
Sigh'd to every passing breeze,
Sigh'd and told the simple story
Of the patriarch of trees;
High in air his harp he hung,
Now no more to rapture strung;
Then warm in hope, no longer pale,
He blush'd adieu, and rambled down the dale.
Lightly touch'd by fairy fingers,
Hark! — the Lyre enchants the wind;
Fond A LCÆUS listens, lingers
— Lingering, listening, looks behind.
Now the music mounts on high,
Sweetly swelling through the sky;
To every tone, with tender heat,
His heart-strings vibrate, and his pulses beat.
Now the strains to silence stealing,
Soft in ecstasies expire;
Oh! with what romantic feeling
Poor A LCÆUS grasps the Lyre.
Lo! his furious hand he flings
In a tempest o'er the strings;
He strikes the chords so quick, so loud,
'Tis J OVE that scatters lightning from a cloud.
" Lyre! O Lyre! my chosen treasure,
Solace of my bleeding heart;
Lyre! O Lyre! my only pleasure,
We will never, never part:
Glory, Commerce, now in vain
Tempt me to the field, the main;
The Muse's sons are blest, though born
To cold neglect, and penury, and scorn.
" What, though all the world neglect me,
Shall my haughty soul repine?
And shall poverty deject me,
While this hallow'd Lyre is mine?
Heaven — that o'er my helpless head
Many a wrathful vial shed, —
Heaven gave this Lyre, — and thus decreed,
Be thou a bruised , but not a broken reed. "