Though Homer's tomb was never known, A mausoleum of his own, Long as the world endures his greatness shall proclaim. What lauding sepulchre does Campbell want? 'Tis his to give, and not derive renown. What monumental bronze or adamant, Like his own deathless lays can hand him down? Poets outlast their tombs: the bust And statue soon revert to dust; The dust they represent still wears the laurel crown. The solid Abbey walls that seem time-proof, The cluster'd shafts and arch-supported roof, That now enshrine and guard our Campbell's tomb, Become a ruin'd shatter'd fane, May fall and bury him again, Yet still the bard shall live, his fame-wreath still shall bloom. Methought the monumental effigies Of elder poets that were grouped around, Lean'd from their pedestals with eager eyes, Where lay the gifted, good, and brave, While earth from Kosciusko's grave Fell on his coffin-plate with freedom-shrieking sound.* And over him the kindred dust was strew'd Of Poets' Corner. O misnomer strange! The poet's confine is the amplitude Of the whole earth's illimitable range, O'er which his spirit wings its flight, Shedding an intellectual light, A sun that never sets, a moon that knows no change. Around his grave in radiant brotherhood, As if to form a halo o'er his head, "And Freedom shriek'd as Kosciusko fell."-CAMPBELL. Not few of England's master spirits stood, Bards, artists, sages, reverently led To wave each separating plea Of sect, clime, party, and degree, All honouring him on whom Nature all honours shed. To me the humblest of the mourning band, Who knew the bard through many a changeful year, It was a proud sad privilege to stand Beside his grave and shed a parting tear. Seven lustres had he been my friend, Be that my plea when I suspend This all-unworthy wreath on such a poet's bier. THE LIFE AND DEATH. THE LIFE. HATH Momus descended, the god of Mirth, To glad the world with his triumphs thus? Or is it a mortal, who tastes on earth An apotheosis rapturous! While his worshippers hail him with choral cries, And Laughter's reverberant ecstasies! He moves like a mental sun, whose light Which every eye that beholds, is bright, A sun, (it is own'd by a nation's lips,) That hath ne'er been dimm'd,-never known eclipse! As this Spirit sits on his throne elate, They tender him homage from every sphere: From the rich, the noble, the wise, the great,Nay, even the King is a courtier here; And, vassal-like, makes his crown submit To the majesty of sceptred Wit.— They press him with flattering words and wiles And impart by his mirth, and songs, and smiles, A glory and zest to their festivals. For they know that his presence can banish gloom, And give light and life to the banquet-room. On what aching hearts hath he gladness pour'd! In scenes unnumber'd, what countless throngs, From the public stage to the festive board, Have enraptured hung on his mirthful songs! At his wit's incessantly flashing light, What shouts have startled the ear of night! |