THE DYING POET TO HIS LYRE

written by Sir Tollemache Sinclair.

Wake, lyre oi mine, in sadness and in sorrow. To linger o'er the mem'ry of past years. To think of all the idols lost and borrow One ray of hope to stop my scalding tears,

Wake, lyre of mine.

Tune, lyre of mine in concord with great Nature. Ns'er mind thy discord with this world's conceit:.

LARUES ET SOUniRES 411

Rise if thou canst to tiie full height and stature, Of that ideal where twin souls one meets,

Tune, lyre of mine.

Sound, lyre of mine ! those thoughts now dimly floating In shapeless forms be it thy care to fix, Heed not if foes o'er all thine ills be gloating, Seek some sweet balm from Fancy's store to mix,

Sound, lyre of mine !

Hush, lyre of mine, if none thy feelings render, And coldness to affection's thrill succeeds, In absence should my loving stanzas tender, Find her heart whole, w^hilst mine still slowly bleeds,

Hush, lyre of mine.

Break, lyre of mine ! thou'lt not survive thy master. Thy strings shall ne'er by stranger's hands be played. High notes I've tried, but Death approaches faster. My heart strings and thy chords shall in one tomb be laid,

Break, lyre of mine.