 | Poems |  |
128
SHELLEY'S GRAVE.
Come, weave the chaplet of a wreathéd song
To hang upon the grave of him who died,
Himself the soul of song. He did not die,
But, all too soon, cracking his chrysalis
Of earth's vile crust, ascended from our eyes;
On the strong pennons of his fiery Thought,
A winged Glory through the Universe
He flew, and, fading from our feeble gaze,
Swept to his immortality. But come,
Weave a grave offering, and let it be
A coronal of music, not of bays;
A coronal of sad sounds meet to mourn
His voice, who taught the latter world to sing.
Oh! therefore, to impregn our dull, dumb lips
With melodies of woe, to wake the lute
Most musical of grief, thee, sacred Muse,
Thee we invoke, unseen,—where'er thou dwellest,
Whether on the Delphic steep sublime,
Fabled Earth's central height, and by the waves
Of Castaly that lave thy hallowed feet;
Or whether Thou, to no straight region bound,
Fair through the boundless Universe of God,
Thy Maker, movest spiritually free;
Or yet, as some conjecture, in the heart
Of man, thy seldom sanctuary, though sole,
Abidest—thee we hail and do invoke
Thy heavenly voice, propitious to our song.
Lead Thou our choral harmony and teach
The dirge in melting melodies to weep.
To hang upon the grave of him who died,
Himself the soul of song. He did not die,
But, all too soon, cracking his chrysalis
Of earth's vile crust, ascended from our eyes;
On the strong pennons of his fiery Thought,
A winged Glory through the Universe
He flew, and, fading from our feeble gaze,
Swept to his immortality. But come,
Weave a grave offering, and let it be
A coronal of music, not of bays;
A coronal of sad sounds meet to mourn
His voice, who taught the latter world to sing.
Oh! therefore, to impregn our dull, dumb lips
With melodies of woe, to wake the lute
Most musical of grief, thee, sacred Muse,
Thee we invoke, unseen,—where'er thou dwellest,
Whether on the Delphic steep sublime,
Fabled Earth's central height, and by the waves
Of Castaly that lave thy hallowed feet;
Or whether Thou, to no straight region bound,
129
Thy Maker, movest spiritually free;
Or yet, as some conjecture, in the heart
Of man, thy seldom sanctuary, though sole,
Abidest—thee we hail and do invoke
Thy heavenly voice, propitious to our song.
Lead Thou our choral harmony and teach
The dirge in melting melodies to weep.
She hath not heard: she cometh not: no string
Quivers, no lip is stirred, and not a sound
Ruffles the calm of Sorrow's waveless deep!
Go, then, ye noble-hearted, true of soul,
Who with sad vagrant steps, in pilgrim bands,
Haunt this grave-garden, whose wild beauty made
Our lost one amorous of Death—depart
In stillness; here, let no frail hand awake
An unimmortal harp; let not the shepherd
Pipe his shrill note, nor meaner minstrel fling
Poor, piteous flowers of dying song to shame
The grave of buried Music. Here let Silence
(Melodious among mourners since the hour
Shelley espoused her in the grave)—let her
Tend undisturbed upon his hallowed rest,
Till some high Muse immortal shall draw nigh,
Fitly to sing of him who wept the dirge
Of Adonais. Silent let us go!
Quivers, no lip is stirred, and not a sound
Ruffles the calm of Sorrow's waveless deep!
Go, then, ye noble-hearted, true of soul,
Who with sad vagrant steps, in pilgrim bands,
Haunt this grave-garden, whose wild beauty made
Our lost one amorous of Death—depart
In stillness; here, let no frail hand awake
An unimmortal harp; let not the shepherd
Pipe his shrill note, nor meaner minstrel fling
Poor, piteous flowers of dying song to shame
The grave of buried Music. Here let Silence
(Melodious among mourners since the hour
Shelley espoused her in the grave)—let her
Tend undisturbed upon his hallowed rest,
Till some high Muse immortal shall draw nigh,
Fitly to sing of him who wept the dirge
Of Adonais. Silent let us go!
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