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AWAKE my lyre, and may thy string
Be tun'd to our Creator's praise;
And let the breeze's balmy wing,

To heaven's gate the accents raise :
And oh! may those celestial lays,

Which Angels sing, my heart inspire To guide my hand which feebly strays Along each chord to tune my lyre. Awake my lyre, 'tis morning hour; The birds are singing in the grove, And 'midst the song from bower to bower Will man forget his Maker's love?He who hath form'd the heavens above,The earth, and still upholds the whole : Will man to God ungrateful prove,

Nor praise him with his heart and soul?

Awake my lyre, the setting sun

In clouds of gold has left the sky;

And now another day is run,

And all its actions known on high.


Then let my hand thy soft notes try
For heaven expects the evening song
And may it bring the heartfelt sigh

For all my sins the whole day long.

Awake my lyre, let some sweet lay,
Be tun'd the sorrowing heart to cheer;
That heaven may shed a kindly ray

And dry at once the mourner's tear.
Let grief those hallow'd accents hear
Which echo round Jehovah's throne,
That blessed place where those appear
Who in our Saviour's steps have gone.
Awake my lyre, with notes of joy,
To sooth the lonely dying bed,
And mingle with the sick man's sigh,
To cast a halo round his head.

And when his silent footsteps tread
The vale where death's dark valley lies,

May music cheer till all is filed

All but the glories of the skies.



How beautiful is genius when combin'd
With holiness! oh! how divinely sweet

ROBERT POLLOK, author of the "Course of Time," was a youthful poet of great promise; but alas! his career was soon cut short; and he has left a memento behind, in that Dowerful though unequal poem which will embalm his me ory on the heart of every true lover of eloquent and im oned song.

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