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But when Grief's wild ruthless hand
Doth its tremulous chords command,
They break in her clasp,
For so rude a grasp
Then do not love the Lyre,
But beware the spell,
Some have proved too well, Nor follow a wandering fire, Mary!
MY RACE IS ALMOST RUN.
My race is almost run, my days are nearly done,
Yet my heart still is buoyant, my spirits are light,It is but as the blaze of a dying taper's rays,
Life's last vivid flash ere it fades into night!
In my day-spring of youth, with a bosom full of truth,
And feelings unwarped or unwithered by wrong; With
every sail unfurled, o'er the waves of the world My bark of existence sped gaily along.
My pilot was Hope, and I fancied I could cope,
If guided by him, with that storm-troubled sea;
Till dashed on Passion's rock, and shattered by the
I soon found how unskilful a helmsman was he.
But years have flitted past, and tried in many a blast
We both have grown wiser and steadier than of yore; The rack hath o’er us rolled, and now cheerily we hold
For a haven from whence we shall wander no more.
My days are well nigh done, my goal will soon be won, And
repose from the buffets of Fortune be mine, Where Hate, however fierce, or Sorrow may not pierce
To bid my cold bosom a moment repine.
O Death! I can brook on thine awful front to look,
And can turn to thee now with a heart void of gloom, To him whom Time can bring no balsam on its wing;
There sure must be healing and rest in the tomb.
YES, METHINKS THAT I COULD.
Yes, methinks that I could without weeping resign Both thy beautiful eyes, though so fondly they
languish; And thy lips, though they often have murmured to mine The soft tones of delight, I could lose without
To be brief: thou hast held so ungentle a sway
O'er the heart that was given by Love to thy keeping, That at length from thy chains it hath stolen away, And methinks I might learn-to lose ALL without
RETOUCH, SWEET FRIEND-RETOUCH THE LUTE.
RETOUCH, sweet Friend-retouch the Lute,
Its tones may turn thy thoughts on me; Let not its chords be longer mute;
Remember, 'twas my gift to thee ! Wake then its wildest, sweetest strain, And bid the past be ours again !
Oh might it yield an answering sound
To all my wishes, hopes, and fears; Nor e'er be mute or tuneless found
Till I forget thy parting tears ; Then would thy life, beloved, be One round of tenderest minstrelsy!