SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE.
Thy hand is cold!—thy colors weave
Their graceful lines no more!
Yet, painter of each lovely face
That lit our island shore,
These faces from the canvass shine,
And haunt us still with thee and thine.
Hero and beauty—all who flung
Their spell around their day—
Owe to thy pencil memories
That will not pass away;
The past—the present seems to be,
Thanks to thy art and thee!
BEETHOVEN.
A stately and a solemn song,
Such as the evening winds prolong
In some cathedral aisle,
When holy hope and lofty thought,
From the soul's deep recesses brought,
Attend the hymn the while.
There mingle with thy glorious strain
No common fancies light and vain;
Thy spirit was enshrined—
Thy chords were thoughts—thy notes were given
To all that links this earth with heaven,
Musician of the mind
FAREWELL.
My little fairy chronicle,
The prettiest of my tasks, farewell!
Ere other eyes shall meet this line,
Far other records will be mine;
How many miles of trackless sea
Will roll between my land and me!
I said thine elfin almanac
Should call all pleasant hours back;
Amid those pleasant hours, will none
Think kindly on what I have done?
Then, fairy page, I leave with thee
Some memory of my songs and me.
