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!-
Thou wert my hope-my love-my joy—my all-
And I once thought thee too my friend-and thou
Couldst fling a charm-a beauty o'er the pall
Of withered happiness-at thy soft call,

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,
I well might breathe the wish, that such an one
Might trust thy faith like me-and be like me undone.

'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.

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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,
And worse than foolish to suppose a strain,

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.