IN MEMORY OF D. G. R.
Bathed in the morning sunlight thou didst stand,
The sisters nine in homage gathered round,
Son of Apollo, with his laurels crowned,
His lyre of lyres trembling in thy hand.
The brush and chisel at thy high command
Enchantment wrought, but sweeter far resounds
The music of thy verse, the soulful sounds
Flung from thy pen as from a magic wand.
Had all thy wondrous powers to song been given,
What floods of melody had filled the air—
Eros’ and Psyche’s voices mingling there.
Alas! the wine is spilled, the lyre is riven,
Stern Albion’s son, thy soft Italian name
Lives only in the Pantheon of Fame.