The Lyre of Life

I am a sad Aeolian lyre,
On which the wind of destiny sings
Earth's discords, or her glad desire,
Until some dread hand breaks my strings ; —
Until some dread hand makes me mute,
And Earth's great organ tones, her roar
Of Autumn on his wintry shore;
Old Ocean's voice,
Bidding his mighty hosts rejoice ;
Spring's melodies that thrill and soar,
Her viol, oboe, lute, and flute,
Reverberate round my heart no more,