ODES.

Thou simple Lyre! thy music wild Has served to charm the weary hour, And many a lonely night has‘ guiled, When even pain has own'd, and smiled,

Its fascinating power. Yet, O my Lyre! the busy crowd Will little heed thy simple tones; Them mightier minstrels harping loud

Engross,— and thou and I must shroud Where dark oblivion‘ thrones. No hand, they diapason o'er, Well skill'd I throw with sweep sublime;

For me, no academic lore Has taught the solemn strain to pour, Or build the polish'd rhyme. Yet thou to sylvan themes canst soar;

Thou know'st to charm the woodland train; The rustic swains believe thy power Can hush the wild winds when they roar, And still the billowy main.

These honours, Lyre, we yet may keep, I, still unknown, may live with thee, And gentle zephyr's wing will sweep Thy solemn string, where low I sleep,

Beneath the alder tree. This little dirge will please me more Than the full requiem's swelling peal; I'd rather than that crowds should sigh

For me, that from some kindred eye The trickling tear should steal. Yet dear to me the wreath of bay, Perhaps from me debarr'd;

And dear to me the classic zone, Which, snatch'd from learning's labour'd throne, Adorns the accepted bard. And O! if yet‘ twere mine to dwell

Where Cam or Isis winds along, Perchance, inspired with ardour chaste, I yet might call the ear of taste To listen to my song.

Oh! then, my little friend, thy style I'd change to happier lays, Oh! then the cloister'd glooms should smile, And through the long, the fretted aisle

Should swell the note of praise.