I often wish this languid lyre,
This warbler of my soul’s desire,
Could raise the breath of song sublime,
To men of fame in former time.
But when the soaring theme I try,
Along the chords my numbers die,
And whisper, with dissolving tone,
„Our sighs are given to love alone!”
Indignant at the feeble lay,
I tore the panting chords away,
Attuned them to a nobler swell,
And struck again the breathing shell,
In all the flow of epic fire,
To Hercules I wake the lyre.
But still its fainting sighs repeat,
„The tale of love alone is sweet!”
Then fare thee well, seductive dream,
That madest me follow Glory’s theme;
For thou, my lyre, and thou, my heart,
Shall never more in spirit part;
And all that one has felt so well
The other shall as sweetly tell!