Another bard of Albion is no more,
Who erst with folded arms, oft, calmly stood,
Nature’s contemplative—the great and good—
Let every hill and valley him deplore,
Whose hand hath ceased to wake the tuneful lyre—
’Mid earthly landscapes, and o’er mountains old,
He walked in sweet Excursion, to behold
“The Rainbow in the Sky.” Nature’s great Sire
Hath taken him—“his heart leaps up” to see
The emerald-colored bow about the throne,