To My Lyre Poem by Edward Henry Bickersteth

And have I flung my once loved lyre
Thus heedless by,
Unstrung are all its chords and hushed
Its melody.
The young—the loved—no more awake
A kindred tone;
My heart has lost its music now,
It is alone;
Life is with me but on the wane—
A faded thing.
The roses too have ceased to bloom,
Yet wear a sting;
The past—it tells of bitterness
And dark despair,
And though the future call me on,
I answer, where?
'Tis to the valley of the dead
Where I may rest—
There—not a moan may dare disturb
My quiet breast.
And thou, my lyre, when I shall lie
Thus silent by,
Mayst to the hollow winds sound one
Funereal cry—
The last! 'Tis all I claim from thee,
Companion dear;
The last reward from those I love
I ask—a tear!