MY LONELY LYRE. "We'll hush the unsuccessful strain And seek our silent woods again." ELLEN FITZ-ARTHUR. My lonely lyre! thou hast betrayed me now!- I know not what, but something would inspire My soul with gladness;-as the breast of Saul Melted to such deep eloquence-such fire Of sound. Thou hast betrayed me now-my lonely lyre! My lonely lyre!-thou knowest me as I am, Not as I seem to others: and to thee My fears-hopes-feelings-passions—every flame That warms or blasts me is discovered-free My soul poured forth its treasures-that wild sea Of tumult and of softness-joy and woe.— The dearest friend can never win from me The secrets thou hast won- -thou badest them flow, Like tears that grief had frozen-thou hast betrayed me now. I trusted thee for fame-it was weak trust: But thou didst promise, and I dared believeAnd so I trusted thee-it was unjust, At least unkind thus coldly to deceive And fling me forth, men's mockery to receive Or, what is worse, their pity"-I had borne, With lip that writhed not-heart that would not grieve, The sneer of envy or the smile of scorn, Hadst thou been faithful-but to have my patience worn With comfort and condolence-and for thee Thou tinkling plaything!-thou soft lady's toy!—— Thou gilded nonsense! to whose minstrelsy It had been hard to task the veriest boy To listen for an hour-it might annoy A mind more patient far than mine ;-begone! If there were one whose peace I would destroy, 'Twas thus I thought-and when I do remember The blight and blackening that at once effaced My dream of hope-and how thy clouds, December, O'er my bright sky their gloomy shadows castHow, in a moment, stripped the flattering past Of all its smiles-and from my future lot. Dashed each fair form, hope's rainbow touch had traced, And changed it into bitterness-such thought Howe'er I grieve that I indulged-I marvel not. с с But now I think less wildly-it is gone That dream of fame-and now, perchance again I learn the truth-that I may live unknown, And not less happily ;-'twas very vain, That scarce might move affection's partial mind, Could challenge justice;-why should I complain That I have failed at stranger's hand to find. What friendship might deny-nor yet be deemed unkind? I have called others proud—and much have borne, For having dared to say so-be it known To such as understand me, tho' I scorn To unsay that saying, I am forced to own All I have charged on them-to smart and groan Beneath the writhing of that pang-they must Forgive me now-methinks, it might atone For such my folly, that I now am thrust From fancy's airy throne to my too kindred dust. Yet have I comfort-'mid those groves of fir, That murmur peace around my quiet home, I'll wake my lyre again,-not to the stir Of mad ambition;-be the sun-writ tome Of nature, all my learning,-the-crisped foam. Of the free brook, my fame,-thy gentle fire, Devotion, my sweet Muse, -the praise of some Whose smile is all to me, my prize;-aspire To such-and I will love thee still, my lonely lyre! Cambridge, May 29, 1827. |