 | The bridal of Vaumond |  |
172
CONCLUSION.
Weep, land of plenty! for the faded hours
Sung by the muse in eld's romance sublime,
When Ceres reign'd emparadis'd in bowers,
In central throne, the boast of beauty's clime—
Green as the laurels, which the hand of time
Hath water'd o'er thy minstrel's hallow'd grave;
His music's echoes died in Maro's rhyme,
But still perennial shall their verdure wave,
While ages howl their march, and round their tempests rave!
Sung by the muse in eld's romance sublime,
When Ceres reign'd emparadis'd in bowers,
In central throne, the boast of beauty's clime—
Green as the laurels, which the hand of time
Hath water'd o'er thy minstrel's hallow'd grave;
His music's echoes died in Maro's rhyme,
But still perennial shall their verdure wave,
While ages howl their march, and round their tempests rave!
Weep, land of glory! for thy heroes dead,
Heroes of fame, the boast of every age!
For him, on mind's eternal wings who sped
Beyond the indignant spirit's narrow cage,
And burning in his mighty pilgrimage
Ask'd but another sphere, to heave on high
Earth and her mountains; weep thy perish'd sage!
And weep, that bard so weak the theme should try,
And mingle with his notes for Sicily a sigh!
Heroes of fame, the boast of every age!
For him, on mind's eternal wings who sped
Beyond the indignant spirit's narrow cage,
And burning in his mighty pilgrimage
Ask'd but another sphere, to heave on high
Earth and her mountains; weep thy perish'd sage!
And weep, that bard so weak the theme should try,
And mingle with his notes for Sicily a sigh!
| The bridal of Vaumond | |