Tis said my lyre is soft and sweet,
Its burnished strings are gay,
But tho’ with melody replete,
It will not sound today.
Yet oft they say electric fire
Has pierced my soul and touch’d my lyre.
Tis true the flash was swift and strange —
I know not how or when —
Thro’ all my soul I felt it range,
And tremble round my pen,
But from my failing tongue it flies
Or only lingers in my eyes.
They say the gifted bard should praise
Soft beauty’s beaming eye.
On beauty’s softest blush I gaze
But only gaze and sigh.
They bid me muse on flower or gem —
Too much I muse — but not on them!
Is this, which warms my soul and cheek
The pure electric flame?
Has this which frozen sages seek,
No fam’d and fearful name?
Ah! let me not the semblance prove
Lest Sages doubt and call it Love!