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

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