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. 6. I'm a rover! I'm a rover
2. Lenimina Laborum. 42. On a Young Tree
3. Lenimina Laborum. 10. Fair as the flower is, it will yet decay
4. Lenimina Laborum. 61. Weep Not, My Bride!
5. Robin’s Cross

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