128
TO THE MEMORY OF SIR U. PRICE.
And deaf the ear, to charm whose organ true,
Mæonian music tuned her harp anew!
And mute the lips where Plato's bee hath roved;
And motionless the hand that genius moved!—
Ah friend! thou speakest not!—but still to me
Do Genius, Music, Nature, speak of thee!—
Still golden fancy, still the sounding line,
And waving wood, recall some word of thine;
Some word, some look, whose living light is o'er—
And Memory sees what Hope can see no more.
Twice, twice, thy voice hath spoken. Twice there came,
To us, a change, a joy—to thee, a fame!
Thou spakest once;[1] a and every pleasant sight,
Woods waving wild, and fountains gushing bright,
Cool copses, grassy banks, and all the dyes
Of shade and sunshine gleam'd before our eyes.
- ↑ Essay on the Picturesque.
