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the dying minstrel to his lyre.
"The Dying Minstrel to his Lyre."
Ah! this is the pillow of green, green moss
For which I have yearn'd so long
To rest my head, as my soul should pass
From earth, with its farewell song;
And this is the hour, the lone, still hour,
In which I so wish'd to die,
When the red beams linger on tree and flow'r,
And eve's balmy breeze sweeps by.
For which I have yearn'd so long
To rest my head, as my soul should pass
From earth, with its farewell song;
And this is the hour, the lone, still hour,
In which I so wish'd to die,
When the red beams linger on tree and flow'r,
And eve's balmy breeze sweeps by.
And now, my lyre, I shall strike thy chords,
I shall waken thy last, last lay,
For I would that the minstrel's dying words
Might live in an after day.
Oh, say that I sank into sweet repose
Ere the gloss from my locks had fled,
Though the rose on my cheek was a faded rose—
That I slept with the early dead!
I shall waken thy last, last lay,
For I would that the minstrel's dying words
Might live in an after day.
Oh, say that I sank into sweet repose
Ere the gloss from my locks had fled,
Though the rose on my cheek was a faded rose—
That I slept with the early dead!
And say my heart was a weary heart
Of life and its bitter thrall,
Of the selfish world, and its cruel art,
Which the honey-drop changed to gall:
Of life and its bitter thrall,
Of the selfish world, and its cruel art,
Which the honey-drop changed to gall:
