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For I from thee could ever borrow
A balm to chase my griefs away.
A balm to chase my griefs away.
But, gentle lyre, though woes oppress me,
Though sorrowing thoughts my peace destroy,
Still my sad heart shall ever bless thee,
And owe to thee its gleam of joy.
Though sorrowing thoughts my peace destroy,
Still my sad heart shall ever bless thee,
And owe to thee its gleam of joy.
And though awhile by me forsaken,
Thou must in silence sleep, my lyre,
I'll strive again thy chords to waken,
With all their bright poetic fire.
Thou must in silence sleep, my lyre,
I'll strive again thy chords to waken,
With all their bright poetic fire.
And though, dear lyre, we now must sever,
Yet in Medina's lovely bow'rs
Again my fingers shall endeavour
To wreathe thy strings with fancy's flow'rs.
Yet in Medina's lovely bow'rs
Again my fingers shall endeavour
To wreathe thy strings with fancy's flow'rs.
