For, even while the trembling hand of age
Dwelt on the strings, no harsh, uncertain sound
Smote false your hearts; the venerable Mage,
The Master-minstrel all your being found;
Revived your souls to the rich bloom of youth,
And charmed with music the high paths to truth.
Ah, ye may dew with tears the burial-stone,
And strew your tributes o'er his stainless hearse;
Voice the far echo of his Godlike tone;
Embalm his memory in your fragrant verse;