Poem by 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?

1. Lenimina Laborum. 47. To Rosella
2. Lenimina Laborum. 50. Even were Hell a fable, 'twere a wise one
3. Lenimina Laborum. 27. The Free-Booter
4. Lenimina Laborum. 18. The Cross-Examination
5. Lenimina Laborum. 10. Fair as the flower is, it will yet decay

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