"Let me bless thee," I cried, "for thy mission of love, 66 Oh say to what name shall I fashion my breath?" "THE ANGEL OF LIFE is my title above, "But short-sighted mortals have christen'd me DEATH!" DIRGE FOR A LIVING POET.* WHAT! shall the mind of bard-historian-sage, Shall darkness quench the beacon of our age, Will none, with genius like his own, Mourn the fine intellect o'erthrown, That died in giving life to deathless heirs? The Muse's humblest votary, Will pour my wailful dirge and sympathising prayers. * Written during the last illness of Southey. Well may I mourn that mental sun's eclipse, For in his study have I sate enshrined, And reverently listen'd while his lips Master'd the master-spirits of mankind, As his expanding wisdom took New range from his consulted book. Oh, to what noble thoughts didst thou give birth, Thou poet-sage, whose life and mind In mutual perfectness combined The spirit's loftiest flight, with purest moral worth! Behold the withering change! amid the rays That form a halo round those volumed wits, Amid his own imperishable lays In silent, blank fatuity he sits! Seeking a respite from his curse, His body, now his spirit's hearse, Still haunts that book-charm'd room, for there alone Thought-gleams illume his wand'ring eyes, As lightnings flicker o'er the skies Where the departed sun in cloudless glory shone. Oh withering, woful change-oh living death! On his dementate brow the titled wreath, A mournful mockery of reason's wreck.— Or dark-hued Greta's rushing roar, A human statue! His unconscious stare Knows not the once familiar spot, Knows not the partner of his lot, Who, as she guides him, sobs a broken-hearted prayer. Oh flood and fell, lake, moorland, valley, hill! Mourn the dark bard who sang your praise of Oh Rydal-Falls, Lodore, and Dungeon Gill! yore. Down the rock's cheek your tearful gushes pour.— Ye crag-envelop'd Tarns that sleep In your hush'd craters, wake and weep. Ye mountains! hide your sorrowing heads in cloud: As sobbing winds around ye moan; Helvellyn! Skiddaw! wail and groan, And clothe your giant forms in vapour's mourning shroud. Why make appeal to these? Ye good and wise Ye kindred natures, who can sympathise With genius 'reft of reason's light divine, Taught, guided, charm'd in other days, As on your knees, ye pour on high This choral supplicating cry Restore, restore, O God! our poet's wand'ring mind! |