before the Death of the Poet.
Therefore, it was a Tribute to him, Living!
A Promethean Poet was there. He had touched the
Heavenly flame; he had lasted the Waters of
Inspiration: he had drained the Crystal Cup of Fancy,
finding therein neither Lees nor Dregs, which
bite the tongue, stifle the song, of lesser Men; he had
reverently kissed the coy hand of Fame, when she had
crowned his Worthy Brow, with her Wreath Immortal!
His Poems, homely, simple, sweet—springing from the lap of