Poem by George Darley

Lenimina Laborum. 7. To My Lyre

Hast thou upon the idle branches hung,
Lyre! this livelong clay,
Nor, as the sweet wind thro' the rose-leaves sung,
Uttered one dulcet lay?—
Come down! and by my rival touch be rung,
As tenderly as they!

Did not Alcaeus with blood-streaming hand
Range o'er his trembling wire,
Stealing forth sounds more eloquently bland
Than softness could desire;
As if with myrtle-bough sweet Venus fanned
His rapt Lesboan lyre?

And shall not I, that never will imbrue
This hand except in wine;
My battle-field, a bed of violets blue,
Where conquered nymphs recline;
Shall not I wake the soul of sweetness too.
Thou gentle Lyre of mine? 

1. Lenimina Laborum. 35. Departing Music
2. Lenimina Laborum. 43. On a Fountain
3. Lenimina Laborum. 22. On the Death of a Young Girl
4. Lenimina Laborum. 55. Deep in the ocean's thundering wave
5. Lenimina Laborum. 27. The Free-Booter

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