ON THE DEATH OF A POET.
Another master of the lyre hath swept
His parting strain. Swan-like and sweet it rose,
But sank unfinished. And methought I heard
Its melody in Heaven, where harp and voice,
Forever hymning the Eternal name,
Blend without weariness. No more he holds,
Tender and sad, his night-watch o'er the dead,
For he is where the Spoiler's icy foot
Hath never trod, nor the dark seeds of grief
In baleful harvest sprang. 'Twere sweet, indeed,
A little longer to have drawn his smile
Into the heart of love, and seen him do,
With all his graceful singleness of soul,
A Saviour's bidding. But be still, be still,
Ye who did gird him up for Heaven, and walk
Even to its gates in his blest company—
If he hath entered first, what then? be still!
And let the few, brief sands of time roll on,
And keep your armour bright, and waiting stand
For his warm welcome to a realm of bliss.