He is gone! the young, and gifted!
By his own strong pinions lifted
To the stars;
Where he strikes, with minstrels olden,
Choral harps, whose strings are golden,
Deathless bars.
There, with Homer's ghost all hoary,
Not with years, but fadeless glory,
Lo! he stands;
And through that open portal,
We behold the bards immortal
Clasping hands!
Hark! how Rome's great epic master
Sings, that death is no disaster
To the wise;
Fame on earth is but a menial,
But it reigns a king perennial
In the skies!
Albion's blind old bard heroic,
Statesman, sage, and Christian stoic,
Greets his son;
Whilst in pæans wild and glorious,
Like his "Paradise victorious,"
Sings, Well done!
Lo! a bard with forehead pendent,
But with glory's beams resplendent
As a star;
Slow descends from regions higher,
With a crown and golden lyre
In his car.