Thou spakest twice;[1] and every pleasant sound
Its ancient silken harmony unwound,
From Doric pipe and Attic lyre that lay
Enclasp'd in hands whose cunning is decay.
And now no more thou speakest! Death hath met
And won thee to him! Oh remember'd yet!
We cannot see, and hearken, and forget!
My thoughts are far. I think upon the time,
When Foxley's purple hills and woods sublime
Were thrilling at thy step; when thou didst throw
Thy burning spirit on the vale below,
To bathe its sense in beauty. Lovely ground!
There, never more shall step of thine resound!
There, Spring again shall come, but find thee not,
And deck with humid eyes her favorite spot;
Strew tender green on paths thy foot forsakes,
And make that fair, which Memory saddest makes.
- ↑ Essay on the Pronunciation of the Ancient Languages.
