268
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
And the seers who sat of yore
By orient palm or wave,
They have pass'd with all their starry lore—
Can ye still fear the grave?
We fear! we fear!—the sunshine
Is joyous to behold,
And we reck not the buried kings,
Nor the awful seers of old.
Ye shrink!—the bards whose lays
Have made your deep hearts burn,
They have left the sun, and the voice of praise,
For the land whence none return.
And the beautiful, whose record
Is the verse that cannot die,
They too are gone, with their glorious bloom,
From the love of human eye.
