Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 39 1833.pdf/6



A lyre its plaintive sweetness pour'd   Forth on the wild wind's track; The stormy wanderer jarr'd the chord, But gave the music back. Oh! child of song, Bear hence to heaven thy fire! What hop'st thou from the reckless throng? Be not like that lost lyre— Not like that lyre!

A flower its leaves and odour cast On a swift-rolling wave; Th' unheeding torrent darkly pass'd,    And back no treasure gave. Oh! heart of love, Waste not thy precious dower! Turn to thine only home above! Be not like that lost flower— Not like that flower!