Ten thousand harps and lutes and golden lyres Are waiting now to start the Heavenly choirs.

We count the broken lyres that rest Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, But o'er their silent sister's breast The wild flowers who will stoop to number?

He continued his experiments in various fields until, at the age of nineteen, he first brought himself to public notice with his enchanted lyre.

With goodwill too for the Aiakidai in Pelion sang the Muses' choir most fair, and in the midst Apollo playing with golden quill upon his seven-toned lyre led them in ever-changing strains.

Some mad thing that left its thicket For mere love of musicflew With its little heart on fire Lighted on the crippled lyre.

We give in charge Their names to the sweet lyre.

A fragile lyre too tensely keyed and strung, A broken music, weirdly incomplete: Here a proud mind, self-baffled and self-stung, Lies coiled in dark defeat.

When you shall touch your gifted lyre, Glowing with sweet, seraphic fire, O then, remember me again, And wake for me one pleasing strain.

It is a harmonious lyre, with nine chords, each rendering various sounds.

And while he strain'd his voice to pierce the skies, As saints in raptures use, would shut his eyes, That the sound striving through the narrow throat, His winking might avail to mend the note, 630 By this, in song, he never had his peer, From sweet Cecilia down to Chanticleer; Nor Maro's muse, who sung the mighty Man, Nor Pindar's heavenly lyre, nor Horace when a swan.

But, if empower'd to strike th' immortal lyre, The ardent vot'ry glows with genuine fire, 'Tis yours, while care recoils, and envy flies, Subdued by his resistless energies, 'Tis yours to bid Piërian fountains flow, And toast his name in Wit's seraglio; To bind his brows with amaranthine bays, And bless, with beef and beer, his mundane days!

the sky's aglow With roseate flushes of matured desire; The winds at eve are musical and low As sweeping chords of a lamenting lyre, Far up among the pillared clouds of fire, Whose pomp in grand procession upward grows, With gorgeous blazonry of funereal shows, To celebrate the summer's past renown.

Fame blows his silver trumpet o'er thy sleep, And Love stands broken by thy lonely lyre; So pure the fire God gave this clay to keep, The clay must still seem holy for the fire.

"Chiron his cruel mind With art, and taught his warlike hands to wind The silver strings of his melodious lyre."

The prose-man takes his mighty lyre And talks like music set on fire!

To softest whisper of the leaves of trees; Then sweeter, grander, nobler, sweeping comes, Like myriad lyres that peal through Heaven's domes.

5. What though the muse her Homer thrones High above all the immortal quire; Nor Pindar's raptures she disowns, Nor hides the plaintive Caean lyre; Alcaeus strikes the tyrant soul with dread, Nor yet is grave Stesichorus unread.

On thee the pleasant lyre and the sweet pipe shed their grace, and the Pierian daughters of Zeus foster thy wide-spread fame.

I love to hold Communion sweet with lofty minds of old, To catch a spark of that celestial fire Which glows and kindles in thy rapturous lyre; Though varying themes demand my future lays, Yet thus my soul a willing homage pays To that bright glory which illumes thy name, Though naught can raise the splendour of thy fame!

how the music swells from silver lute And golden-stringèd lyres and softest flute And harps and tinkling cymbals, measured drums, While a soft echo from the chamber comes.

For until now, whatever wrought Against my sweet desires, My days were smitten harps strung taut, My nights were slumbrous lyres.

Thou might'st have been one of us, Cleaving the storm and fire; Aspiring through faith to the glorious, Higher and ever higher; Till the world of storms look tremulous, Far down, like a smitten lyre!

Flaubert's friend, Louis Bouilhet, made a inartful attempt to tune the stubborn lyre to music of the birthday of the world, to battles of the ichthyosaurus and the plesiosaurus, to loves of the mammoth and the mastodon.

And 'twas to tell thee this that I have taken The tuneless lyre I thought to use no more, Yet once at thy returning may it waken, Then sleep forever, silent as before.

At every pause, before thy mind possessed, Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around, With uncouth lyres, in many-coloured vest, Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crowned: Whether thou bid'st the well-taught hind repeat