Publisher's Synopsis
I often wish this languid lyre, This warbler of my soul's desire, Could raise the breath of song sublime, To men of fame in former time. But when the soaring theme I try, Along the chords my numbers die, And whisper, with dissolving tone, 'Our sighs are given to love alone!' Indignant at the feeble lay, I tore the panting chords away, Attuned them to a nobler swell, And struck again the breathing shell; In all the glow of epic fire, To Hercules I wake the lyre! But still its fainting sighs repeat, 'The tale of love alone is sweet!' Then fare thee well, seductive dream, That madest me follow Glory's theme; For thou my lyre, and thou my heart, Shall never more in spirit part; And thou the flame shalt feel as well As thou the flame shalt sweetly tell.
