Poems (Nealds)/Sonnet on resuming the Lyre
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POEMS.
POEMS.
SONNETON RESUMING THE LYRE.
Once more I snatch my lyre, my much lov'd lyre,
From the dark willow where it long has hung:
But my weak fingers tremble o'er each wire,
For oh! the hand of sorrow has those wires strung.
It was my pastime once, in happier hours,
To strike those chords, and songs of joy to sing,
To twine around them wreaths of blooming flow'rs,
And wake to melody its every string.
Now round that lyre I cypress garlands wreathe,
And bid its tones be plaintive, soft, and low:
For vain the wish that it again should breathe
Aught but the wailings of despair and woe.
Perchance 'twill soothe awhile my bosom's pain,
Then, gentle lyre, I'll hang thee up again.
From the dark willow where it long has hung:
But my weak fingers tremble o'er each wire,
For oh! the hand of sorrow has those wires strung.
It was my pastime once, in happier hours,
To strike those chords, and songs of joy to sing,
To twine around them wreaths of blooming flow'rs,
And wake to melody its every string.
Now round that lyre I cypress garlands wreathe,
And bid its tones be plaintive, soft, and low:
For vain the wish that it again should breathe
Aught but the wailings of despair and woe.
Perchance 'twill soothe awhile my bosom's pain,
Then, gentle lyre, I'll hang thee up again.