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From The Herald, New York, 24th November 1837
Coleridge.
He told the lay of Christabelle,
He sung the song of Genevieve;
The sweetest note that ever waked
A silent summer eve.
He roused our English lute from sleep,
And hung it, with a votive vow,
For worship and the following,
On the green myrtle bough.
Still o’er the poet’s haunted grave
Its melancholy murmurs sweep;
Oh! Lovely is the face of Death
By music lulled to sleep.
