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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO MY LYRE by ELIZA COOK

First Line: MY LYRE! OH, LET THY SOOTHING POWER
Last Line: I THANK THEE, GOD! BUT MOST FOR THIS
My lyre! oh, let thy soothing power
Beguile once more the lonely hour;
Thy music ever serves to cheer,
To quell the sigh and chase the tear.
Thy notes can ever wile away
The sleepless night and weary day;
And howsoe'er the world may tire,
I care not while I've thee, my Lyre!
None were around to mark and praise
The breathings of thy first, rude lays;
But many a chiding taunt was thrown
To mock and crush thy earliest tone.
'Twas harshly done-yet, ah! how vain
The cruel hope to mar thy strain;
For the stern words that bade us part
But bound thee closer to my heart.
Let the bright laurel-wreath belong
To prouder harps of classic song;
I'll be content that thou shouldst bear
The wild flowers children love to wear.
If warmth be round thy chords,
'Tis Nature that shall yield the fire;
If one responsive tone be found,
'Tis Nature that shall yield the sound.
Gold may be scant-I ask it not;
There's peace with little-fairly got.
The hearts I prize may sadly prove
False to my hopes, my trust, my love.
Let all grow dark around, but still
I find a balm for every ill:
However chequered fate may be,
I find wealth, joy, and friends in thee.




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