Terry Trainor Poet Classicism

The Remonstrance

Why mimic thus the feeble bee
And flutter over each lovely flower
Where is the harp I strung for thee
The wing I braced with growing power 

I gave thee not the sprightly flute
To call the dance and wake the song
I gave you not the breathing lute
A lovers sighing to prolong

The harp I gave you was once my own
But seldom struck by mortal hand
Its cords are deep, and wild it’s tone
And nature owns its stern command

Then plunge amid the battle storm
Fire with its peals the hero’s breast
Nor waste a note on beauty’s form
To win a smile, and lose thy rest

Or catch, amid the blazing sky
The melody of rolling spheres
Nor let the beam of beauty’s eye
Profane thy song or wake thy fears

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