Poems (Osgood)/The World-worn Lyre

by Frances Sargent Osgood

THE WORLD-WORN LYRE.

Love! no more, with soul of fire,
Sweep the strings and sound the lyre
All too wild the sad refrain,
When thy touch awakes the strain.
Thou henceforth must veil thy face
With its blush of childish grace,
Still thy sweet entrancing tone,
Fold thy wings and weep alone.

Mirth! oh! ne'er again come thou
With thy careless, cloudless brow,
With thy frolic-fingers flying,
Lightly o'er the lyre replying,
Making music, like a smile,
Glisten thro' its strings the while.
Thou and I, gay sprite! must part,—
Go thou to some happier heart!

Lyre! amid whose chords my soul,
Lull'd, enchanted, proudly stole,
Folly, Vanity, and Mirth,
Long have tuned thy tones to earth,—
I will take thee, hush'd and holy,
Changed in heart, and sad and lowly,
Into Nature's mother-breast;
There I'll lay thee down to rest.

There her harmony shall blend
All its soul with thine, sweet friend!
Silent lie upon her shrine
Till some spirit more divine,
Mission'd from its home to thee,
Teach a holier melody;
Then, awaked by airs of heaven,
Be thy discord all forgiven!

Meekly let thy music low
With creation's chorus flow,
With the music of the spheres,
Into listening angels' ears!
Let, henceforth, thy sweetest lays
Be attuned to prayer and praise,
And naught earth-born e'er again
Thee, my pleading lyre, profane!