TO A SILENT POET.
135
The lyre, whose high, heroic notes
A thousand hearts have stirred,
Lies mute,—the skillful hand no more
Awakes one slumbering chord.
A thousand hearts have stirred,
Lies mute,—the skillful hand no more
Awakes one slumbering chord.
Oh poet! rouse thee from thy dreams!
Wake from thy voiceless slumbers!
And once again give to the breeze
The music of thy numbers.
Wake from thy voiceless slumbers!
And once again give to the breeze
The music of thy numbers.
Sing, for our country claims her bard,
She listens for thy strains;
Sing, for upon our jarring earth,
Too much of discord reigns.
She listens for thy strains;
Sing, for upon our jarring earth,
Too much of discord reigns.
