TAKE here the tender harp again, O Muse! which thou hast lent to me; I wake no more the joyous strain To youthful love or social glee. Forgive the weak and sickly shell That could so ill my soul express; What most I wish'd I durst not tell, And chose my themes from idleness. Oft when I told of peace and pleasure, I mark'd the hostile sabre shine; And water, doled in scanty measure, I drank, who wont to sing of wine. Might peace, might love's auspicious fire But gild at last my closing day, Then, Goddess, then return the lyre To wake perhaps a loftier lay. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LET ME NOT HATE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON ON THE ROAD TO CHORRERA by ARLO BATES THE MYSTIC'S VISION by MATHILDE BLIND A QUESTION by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS THEN AND NOW by JEAN JACQUES ANTOINE AMPERE THE GLORIOUS GIFT OF GOD by BENJAMIN BEDDOME |