As if bound on a pilgrimage,
We visit now thy shore,
Haunted by all which thou hast gleaned
From the old days of yore:
We feel in every hill and heath
Romance which thou hast flung;
We say, 'Twas here the poet dwelt,
'Twas there of which he sung.
Remembering thee, we half forget
How vainly this is said;
There seemed so much of life in thee,
We cannot think thee dead.
Dead? dead? when there is on this earth
Such waste of worthless breath;
There should have gone a thousand lives
To ransom thee from death!
Now out on it! to hear them speak
Their idle words and vain,
As if it were a common loss
For nature to sustain.
It is an awful vacancy
A great man leaves behind,
And solemnly should sorrow fall
Upon bereaved mankind.
We have too little gratitude
Within the selfish heart,
Else with what anguish should we see
The great and good depart!
Methinks our dark and sinful earth
Might dread an evil day,
When Heaven, in pity or in wrath,
Calls its beloved away.
A fear and awe are on my soul,
To look upon the tomb,
And think of who are sleeping laid
Within its midnight gloom.
What glorious ones are gone!—thus light
Doth vanish from our spheres:
Out on the vanity of words!
Peace now, for thoughts and tears!
