Must silence rest upon thy lyre,
And will thy hand awake it never?
And must the great deeps of thy soul
Remain becalmed for ever?
O for a midnight storm of song!
The peal of arms, the blaze of glory,
Like that which once aroused a world,—
Thy Grecian hero's story!
O for a generous burst of song!
Like that which once new splendor shed
Round the "pilgrim shrine" of a poet's grave,
And deified the dead!
O for a mirth-born "Fanny," sent,
That troubled lives, half unawares,
Might take in dancing shapes of joy,
And banish spectre cares!
O for a lay, to crown the brave!—
Or rosy wreaths of love to twine,
To ring joy's bells, or start griefs tear,
If only it be thine!
Be hero-bard,—be minstrel gay,—
Thy song, if of thy soul a part,
Must bear a charmèd life, and live
Within thy country's heart.