Lyre of the Sonnet, that full many a time
Amus'd my lassitude, and sooth'd my pains,
When graver cares forbade the lengthen'd strains,
To thy brief bound, and oft-returning chime
A long farewell!—the splendid forms of Rhyme
When Grief in lonely orphanism reigns,
Oppress the drooping Soul.—DEATH's dark domains
Throw mournful shadows o'er the Aonian clime;
For in their silent bourne my filial bands
Lie all dissolv'd;—and swiftly-wasting pour
From my frail glass of life, health's sparkling sands.
Sleep then, my LYRE, thy tuneful tasks are o'er,
Sleep! for my heart bereav'd, and listless hands
Wake with rapt touch thy glowing strings no more!