The legendary :: :: University of Virginia Library

How peacefully yon winding brook
Along the cemetery flows,
As if its waters paused to look
Where sleep the dead in household rows.
Wild lilies fringe its wayward path,
And lean upon each mouldering tomb;
But round one spot the verdure hath
A richer and a fresher bloom.
And softer by the wind hath gone,
While, by the parting sunset flame,
I clear the long grass from the stone,
To trace the epitaph and name—
And well those flowers may freshlier blow,
The low wind hush its whispering tongue;
For he who slumbereth below
Was gifted with the fire of song.
That name! how much it tells of one
Whose mind, though bright with glorious rays
Direct from heaven, yet beamed unknown,
Nor drew the world's enchanted gaze;
Who, far above men's winning art,
Their fame and fortunes to exalt,
Would never bow his noble heart—
Excess of honor was his fault.

I knew him well, when hoary age
Had blanched his locks, and, by the hearth,
Have often bent to hear the sage
Floods of wild eloquence pour forth.
And while in visionary trance
His rapid numbers smoothly rolled,
He seemed, in voice and countenance,
Inspired as were the bards of old.
And worthy of their harps was he—
Worthy to wake, with them, the grand
War anthem, or the music free
Of love, with burning lip and hand,
But silently he passed away,
Like thought unuttered, and his lyre
Was hushed, till angel hands should play
The notes immortal themes inspire.
Yet it is sweet, 't is passing sweet,
When living, our own praise to hear,
And see, in raptures, at our feet,
Woman, the genius worshipper;
And feel and know that, after death,
The great, the beautiful, and brave,
Will come to hang the laurel wreath,
And drop a tear upon our grave.
Grave of an unknown Genius!—blest
Be the cold pillow of his sleep—
Still may strange visions gild his rest,
Like those which nightly used to sweep
Around his couch, in radiance
Immortal, when, though sealed, his eyes,
With fancy's telescopic glance,
Pierced the blue curtain of the skies,

And saw, as in a mystic glass,
Pictures of woods and amber streams,
In twilight, classic vistas pass,
And caught celestial tinted gleams
Of fair faced daughters, whose bright hair
Like robes of sunlight round them hung,
And bathed their ivory bodies there,
While back his rapturous gaze they flung.
Voices and viols, too, from high,
Came stealing to his ravished ear,
In cadences of ecstacy,
So sweet, 't were almost death to hear;
And secrets of the other world,
The orbs, and those who in them dwell,
Were, like a burning scroll, unfurled,
And told what mortal might not tell.
Nature, not less, with day dreams true
Of living joys, oft thrilled his frame;
From every passing hour he drew
Deep lessons, as in glory came
Spring with its silver sea of flowers,
Summer's majestic thunder cloud,
Gorgeous autumn's hectic hours,
And winter's universal shroud.
Born with a shape of kingly mould,
An eye, where light ethereal flashed,
A brow of marble, high and bold,
That vulgar minds with awe abashed—
Why, from yon lonely poplar vale,
Where smiled his cottage through the trees,
Came forth no minstrel to regale
The world with holy rhapsodies?

Oh! all availed not. Still his lyre
Hung silent to the world around;
None, save the happy cherub choir
Of heaven, were conscious of its sound—
As angels oft view many a star,
And catch its music's golden tone,
While ray and song to mortals are
Both undiscovered and unknown.