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Our sad society, and passing mourn,
Letting cold tears bedew his silver urn.
And, when the poet's widow'd grot he laves,
His reed-crown'd locks shall shake, his head shall bow,
His tide no more in eddies blith shall rove,
But creep soft by with long-drawn murmurs slow.
For oft the poet rous'd his charmed waves
With martial notes, or lull'd with strain of love.
He must not now in brisk mæanders flow
Gamesome, and kiss the sadly-silent shore,
Without the loan of some poetic woe.
Letting cold tears bedew his silver urn.
And, when the poet's widow'd grot he laves,
His reed-crown'd locks shall shake, his head shall bow,
His tide no more in eddies blith shall rove,
But creep soft by with long-drawn murmurs slow.
For oft the poet rous'd his charmed waves
With martial notes, or lull'd with strain of love.
He must not now in brisk mæanders flow
Gamesome, and kiss the sadly-silent shore,
Without the loan of some poetic woe.
Can I forget, how erst his osiers made
Sad sullen music, as bleak Eurus fann'd?
Can I forget, how gloom'd yon laureat shade,
E'er death remorseless wav'd his ebon wand?
How, midst yon grot, each silver trickling spring
Wander'd the shelly channels all among;
While as the coral roof did softly ring,
Responsive to their sweetly-doleful song.
Sad sullen music, as bleak Eurus fann'd?
Can I forget, how gloom'd yon laureat shade,
E'er death remorseless wav'd his ebon wand?
How, midst yon grot, each silver trickling spring
Wander'd the shelly channels all among;
While as the coral roof did softly ring,
Responsive to their sweetly-doleful song.
Mean-
