Nor failed to wear the mingled hues
He loved, and knew so well to render,
But wooed,—alas, in vain!—their Muse
For one more tuneful lay and tender,
We paused awhile,—the gathered few
Who came, in longing, not in duty,—
With eyes that full of weeping grew,
To look their last upon his beauty.
Death would not rudely rob that face,
Nor dim its fine Arcadian brightness,