Джордж Дарли (George Darley)

The Solitary Lyre

Wherefore, unlaurell'd Boy,
 Whom the contemptuous Muse will not inspire,
With a sad kind of joy
 Still sing'st thou to thy solitary lyre?

The melancholy winds
 Pour through unnumber'd reeds their idle woes,
And every Naiad finds
 A stream to weep her sorrow as it flows.

Her sighs unto the air
 The Wood-maid's native oak doth broadly tell,
And Echo's fond despair
 Intelligible rocks re-syllable.

Wherefore then should not I,
 Albeit no haughty Muse my heart inspire,
Fated of grief to die,
 Impart it to my solitary lyre?

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