The Minstrel's Farewell to his Lvre.

VALEDICTORY.

THE MINSTREL'S FAREWELL TO HIS LYRE.

When Fate's stern fiat dooms fond friends to part, What thrilling pangs pervade the feeling heart! With ardent glow the proffer'd hand is press'd, While the moist eye bespeaks the aching breast; The final gaze, we, lingering, still renew, Dreading the last, the painful word-Adieu!

So I-a bird of passage-wont to rove—
Have oft been doom'd to leave the friends I love;
Have oft been fated to endure the smart

Which now afflicts my lacerated heart;

That heart, alive to every finer glow,
Enrapturing joy-or ecstacy of wo.

Then, friends of song, attend your Minstrel's lay;
He sings but this, and throws his lyre away.

In life's fair morn, when sunshine warm'd the scene, And fairy hopes danced o'er the laughing green, His infant Muse essay'd the artless strain, On Charles's bank, or Newton's verdant plain; Gave him her lyre, and taught his hand to play, While flattering Echo chanted back the lay.

The Minstrel's Farewell to his Lyre.

Pleased, like a child, he fondly thought 'twas Fame, Ambition kindled, and he sought the dame; Unknowing where her lofty temple stood, He pierced the grotto and explored the wood; But vain the search, in meadow, vale, or hill, The air-form'd phantom flew, but answer'd still, Till tired Experience proved the sylvan scene Held not the temple of ambition's queen.

With fond regret he left the calm retreat,
Where Nature's charms in sweet disorder meet,
Diversified with meadows, groves, and hills,
And Charles's thousand tributary rills-
Left rustic joys, to court the city's smile,
And woke the strain in Beauty's cause awhile-
He sung of love-a minstrel's sweetest dream,
And sung sincerely-for he felt the theme;
His soul was pour'd in every amorous tone→→→→
An angel heard, and answer'd with her own.

Columbia call'd-to arms her veterans sprung,
He felt the impulse, and of glory sung;
Swept o'er the chords, assumed a loftier lay,
And vent❜rous dared with bolder hand to play.

But, ah! his harp no blooming laurel bears, His humble brow no blushing garland wears;

The Minstrel's Farewell to his Lyre.

Unknown, unsought, he must obscurely sigh,
Held from despair but by affection's tie;
By love and penury condemn'd to know,
Like Leda's sons, alternate bliss and wo.

Then Fame, adieu! no more he courts your charms; Welcome, Retirement! take him to your arms; Here, gentle Muse, he gives you back the lyre, Whose tones could once his youthful bosom fire. That lyre shall sleep, nor breathe a tone again, Till scenes celestial claim the glowing strain ; Till realms eternal burst upon the view, And animate the wondering bard anew. Till then, farewell! He follows Fame no more; But spurns the shrine at which he knelt beforeLet Poverty prepare her bitterest draught, And Malice barb his most inveterate shaftThe troubled dream of life will soon be o'er, And a bright morning dawn to fade no more.