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Now the strains to silence stealing,
Oh! with what romantic feeling
Poor ALCEUS grasps the Lyre ! Lo! his furious hand he flings
In a tempest o'er the strings;
He strikes the chords so quick, so loud,
'Tis Jove that scatters lightning from a cloud!
Lyre! O Lyre! my chosen treasure,
"Solace of my bleeding heart;
"Lyre! O Lyre! my only pleasure, "We will never, never part!
"Glory, Commerce, now in vain,
"Tempt me to the field, the main ; "The Muse's sons are blest, though born
"To cold neglect, and penury, and scoru.
What, though all the world neglect me,
"Shall my haughty soul repine ? "And shall poverty deject me,
"While this hallow'd Lyre is mine? "Heaven-that o'er my helpless head "Many a wrathful vial shed,
"Heaven gave this Lyre-and thus decreed, "Be thou a bruis'd, but not a broken reed!"
REMONSTRANCE TO WINTER.
AH! why, unfeeling WINTER! why
Fly, Melancholy Season, fly,..
And yield the year to SPRING.
SPRING,-the young harbinger of love,
Flits o'er the scene, like NOAH's dove,
Nor finds a resting-place.
When on the mountain's azure peak
Alights her fairy form,
Cold blow the winds,-and dark and bleak
Around her rolls the storm.
If to the valley she repair
For shelter and defence,
Thy wrath pursues the mourner there, And drives her, weeping, thence.
She seeks the brook, the faithless brook, Of her unmindful grown,
Feels the chill magic of thy look,
And lingers into stone.
She wooes her embryo-flowers in vain
In vain she bids the trees expand
And stretch their withering arms.
Her favourite birds, in feeble notes,
Lament thy long delay;
And strain their little stammering throats
To charm thy blasts away.
Ah, WINTER! calm thy cruel rage,
Release the struggling year;
Thy power is past, decrepid Sage!
Arise and disappear.
The stars that graced thy splendid night
Are lost in warmer rays;
The Sun, rejoicing in his might,
Unrolls celestial days.
Then why, usurping WINTER, why
Fly, unrelenting tyrant, fly
And yield the year to SPRING!