NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
Oh, rare, fine spirit, from the silent land,
No message cometh, e'en from such as thou,
Who bore on earth a potent, magic wand,
Wielded with delicate and fairy hand.
Yet art thou ever with us still, I trow,
In minds spell-bound by thy creations now,
Who sprang to being by thy soul's command.
We call thee dead, but we who live can find
No way to send a token slight to thee,
Whilst thou, with insight keen and matchless power,
Charmeth, through all life's round, the weary mind.
'Tis thou who livest! still thy witchery
Falleth on us with precious, golden dower.
No message cometh, e'en from such as thou,
Who bore on earth a potent, magic wand,
Wielded with delicate and fairy hand.
Yet art thou ever with us still, I trow,
In minds spell-bound by thy creations now,
Who sprang to being by thy soul's command.
We call thee dead, but we who live can find
No way to send a token slight to thee,
Whilst thou, with insight keen and matchless power,
Charmeth, through all life's round, the weary mind.
'Tis thou who livest! still thy witchery
Falleth on us with precious, golden dower.