My lyre anew you big me string
You bid me wake its sweetest strain,
Of many a pleasing theme to sing,
But ah dear maid, you bid in vain.
The winter’s cold has chilled my fire,
The winter’s fogs my senses numb,
My hands refuse to sweep the lyre,
That lyre’s most tuneful strings are dumb.
Yet ope the Chest again,
And call its gentle votaries round,
And long you shall not bid in vain
No long my lyre be silent found.
The fire that warms the sacred Chest,
The fire of genius, bright and clear,
That burns forever in its breast
Again my frozen sense shall cheer.
My lyre, self waked, spontaneous ring
Like Eolus’ famed harp shall seem
Nor need my hand to tune its string,
But sport thro’ many a varied theme.
November 19th 1811