To My Lyre.
O harp, with whom my childhood played,
Within that verdant dell,
O'erbower'd by boughs of grateful shade,
I go--Farewell! farewell!
If I have durst to raise thy tone
To sing a theme too high,
Thou, thou must bear the sin alone,
O harp, not I, not I.
For, thou had'st witch'd me with a love
Where reason had no part;
I felt that thou would'st e'en approve,
And fondly heard my heart.
The song hath ended. Silence falls
Round the enchanted dell;
Awhile I heed no more thy calls,
Sweet harp! farewell! farewell!
Within that verdant dell,
O'erbower'd by boughs of grateful shade,
I go--Farewell! farewell!
If I have durst to raise thy tone
To sing a theme too high,
Thou, thou must bear the sin alone,
O harp, not I, not I.
For, thou had'st witch'd me with a love
Where reason had no part;
I felt that thou would'st e'en approve,
And fondly heard my heart.
The song hath ended. Silence falls
Round the enchanted dell;
Awhile I heed no more thy calls,
Sweet harp! farewell! farewell!
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