The Battle-Day and Other Poems | ||
131
THE POET'S DEATH.
A brave old warrior of poesy,
Grown grey-haired in the service of his lyre;
A soul like an imprisoned Liberty—
A mind like an imprisoned fire.
Grown grey-haired in the service of his lyre;
A soul like an imprisoned Liberty—
A mind like an imprisoned fire.
Vain tyranny would chain his eagle wings,
Vain malice would his heavenly visions tame:
Still through the prison-bars the angel sings,
Still breaks through dungeon-walls the flashing flame.
Vain malice would his heavenly visions tame:
Still through the prison-bars the angel sings,
Still breaks through dungeon-walls the flashing flame.
Forth, o'er the coldness of the outer world,
Burst from his heart deep feeling's fiery flow;
Thus, from the volcano's rim unfurled,
The lava-banner waves o'er ice and snow.
Burst from his heart deep feeling's fiery flow;
Thus, from the volcano's rim unfurled,
The lava-banner waves o'er ice and snow.
Hail to the bard, who ever sang the right!
Hail to the river on a desert rolled!
Hail to the veteran from the Titan-fight!
Hail to the heart that dies but grows not old!
Hail to the river on a desert rolled!
Hail to the veteran from the Titan-fight!
Hail to the heart that dies but grows not old!
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Slow down the tide of the departing years,
The venerable shadow flits along.
No tears for him, who ne'er gave rise to tears;
His requiem be an echo of his song.
The venerable shadow flits along.
No tears for him, who ne'er gave rise to tears;
His requiem be an echo of his song.
The Battle-Day and Other Poems | ||