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 all that one has felt so well

The other shall as sweetly tell!