 | Poems |  |
113
AT POLLOCK'S GRAVE.
One seared leaf quivering down
From the green choir that wails thy brief renown:
This is the poet's crown!
From the green choir that wails thy brief renown:
This is the poet's crown!
Where is thy skillful lute,
That could provoke the birds to sweet dispute?
Alas! forever mute!
That could provoke the birds to sweet dispute?
Alas! forever mute!
The hand that drew the balm
Of ravishing music from tuned strings is calm;
The worm feeds on thy palm.
Of ravishing music from tuned strings is calm;
The worm feeds on thy palm.
Not the majestic sweep
Of subtle melodies thy nerve could keep
From out the dusty heap.
Of subtle melodies thy nerve could keep
From out the dusty heap.
The eager sun-rays dart
Through silken grasses, searching for thy heart,
Of perfect gold a part.
Through silken grasses, searching for thy heart,
Of perfect gold a part.
114
The frail vine mantling
Thy undeserved nakedness doth cling
About thee, perishing.
Thy undeserved nakedness doth cling
About thee, perishing.
Though no cut altar-stone
Is set to tell these ashes are thine own,
Thou art not all unknown.
Is set to tell these ashes are thine own,
Thou art not all unknown.
Nor dost thou, voiceless, wait;
A thousand whispering tongues shall penetrate
The Heaven's pearly gate:
A thousand whispering tongues shall penetrate
The Heaven's pearly gate:
Singing thine unsung songs,
Chanting thy praises out of tuneful throngs,
And righting all thy wrongs.
Chanting thy praises out of tuneful throngs,
And righting all thy wrongs.
[OMITTED]
I would some song dispense,
But falter in my homely utterance,
For music is flown hence.
But falter in my homely utterance,
For music is flown hence.
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