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"A nobler flame shall warm thy breast,
Whate'er thy lot, whoe'er thou be, Confess thy folly, -kiss the rod, And in thy chastening sorrows see The hand of God.
"A bruised reed He will not break;
“Humbled beneath his mighty hand, Prostrate his Providence adore:
"Tis done!-Arise! HE bids thee stand, To fall no more.
"Now, Traveller in the vale of tears, To realms of everlasting light,
Through Time's dark wilderness of years, Pursue thy flight.
"There is a calm for those who weep,
"The Soul, of origin divine,
GOD's glorious image, freed from clay,
"The SUN is but a spark of fire, A transient meteor in the sky; The SOUL, immortal as its Sire,
SHALL NEVER DIE."
"Ah! who would love the lyre!"
W. B. STEVENS.
WHERE the roving rill meander'd
Pale with thought, serenely pale
O'er his arm, his lyre neglected,
And, in spirit deep dejected,
Thus the pensive poet sung; While at midnight's solemn noon, Sweetly shone the cloudless moon, And all the stars, around his head, Benignly bright, their mildest influence shed
"Lyre! O Lyre! my chosen treasure,
Solace of my bleeding heart;
Lyre! O Lyre! my only pleasure,
We must now for ever part;
For in vain thy poet sings,
Woos in vain thine heavenly strings; The Muse's wretched sons are born
To cold neglect, and penury, and scorn.
"That which ALEXANDER sigh'd for,
That which CÆSAR's soul possess'd,
'To arms!' they call: to arms I fly,
Like WOLFE to conquer, and like WOLFE to die.
"Soft! the blood of murder'd legions
Summons vengeance from the skies; Flaming towns and ravaged regions, All in awful judgment rise.
O then, innocently brave,
I will wrestle with the wave;
Lo! Commerce spreads the daring sail,
"Blow, ye breezes ! - gently blowing,
I'll strew the golden harvest of
"Then shall Misery's sons and daughters
I will scatter o'er the land
On an oak, whose branches hoary
Now no more to rapture strung;
Then warm in hope, no longer pale,
He blush'd adieu, and rambled down the dale.
Lightly touch'd by fairy fingers,
- the Lyre enchants the wind;
Fond ALCAUS listens, lingers
Lingering, listening, looks behind.
Now the music mounts on high, Sweetly swelling through the sky; To every tone, with tender heat,
His heart-strings vibrate, and his pulses beat.
Now the strains to silence stealing,
Soft in ecstasies expire;
Oh! with what romantic feeling
Poor ALCEUS grasps the Lyre.