To some crowned divinity;
But his youngest, loveliest one,
Was as yet unwooed, unwon.
On that sky lyre a chord is mute
Haply, one echo yet remains,
To linger on the Poet's lute,
And tell, in his most mournful strains,
A star hath left its native sky
To touch our cold earth, and to die;
To warn the young heart how it trust