Farewell on earth; Heaven claim'd its own; Let dust and ashes learn content. Ha! those small voices silver-sweet 166 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE LYRE. "Ah! who would love the lyre!" W. B. STEVENS. WHERE the roving rill meander'd O'er his arm, his lyre neglected, Thus the pensive poet sung; Benignly bright, their mildest influence sned. 66 "Lyre! O Lyre! my chosen treasure, Solace of my bleeding heart; Lyre! O Lyre! my only pleasure For in vain thy poet sings, Wooes in vain thine heavenly strings; The Muse's wretched sons are born "That which ALEXANDER Sigh'd for, Like WOLFE to conquer, and like WOLFE to die. "Soft!-the blood of murder'd legions Summons vengeance from the skies; I will wrestle with the wave; Lo! Commerce spreads the daring sail, "Blow, ye breezes !-gently blowing, "Then shall Misery's sons and daughters I will scatter o'er the land I give the lyre and sorrow to the wind." On an oak, whose branches hoary REMONSTRANCE TO WINTER. AH! why, unfeeeling WINTER, Why Spring, the young harbinger of love, Flits o'er the scene, like NOAH's dove When on the mountain's azure peak Cold blow the winds,-and dark and bleak Around her rolls the storm. If to the valley she repair For shelter and defence, Thy wrath pursues the mourner there, She seeks the brook, the faithless brook, Feels the chill magic of thy look, She wooes her embryo-flowers in vain In vain she bids the trees expand Her favourite birds, in feeble notes, And strain their little stammering throats |