This page needs to be proofread.
HOME.
PART I.
Come, gentle lyre! sequestered from the world,
Tired of its tumults and its pomps and pride,
Thee, wonted solace of my careworn heart,
Glad I resume: intent not now to strike
With hurried hand thy strings, nor thee to make
Loud resonant of numbers strange or wild;
But, with such mood serene and airy touch
As best befit soft-breathing harmonies,
To wake thy tones on a familiar theme.
As whom necessity ordains to tread
The arid waste where trackless Libyan sands
Reflect the sun, seek not in vain to find,
At distant intervals, some friendly spots
