 | The forest minstrel |  |
146
TO THE MEMORY OF T. W. WHITE,
LATE EDITOR OF THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.
And has the Southern Muse no votive wreath
To lay upon thy tomb? No pensive lyre,
A living requiem to thy name to breathe,
Long as the winds of heaven shall wake the wire?
To lay upon thy tomb? No pensive lyre,
A living requiem to thy name to breathe,
Long as the winds of heaven shall wake the wire?
Shall Southern genius build for thee no tomb
From her rich treasury of native gems?
Shall Southern kindness braid no funeral crown,
From her rich wilderness of flow'ring stems?
From her rich treasury of native gems?
Shall Southern kindness braid no funeral crown,
From her rich wilderness of flow'ring stems?
Oh, ardent friend and lover of the Muse?
Generous embalmer of her native lay,
Thou, who didst never falter or refuse
To aid young Genius in her upward way!
Generous embalmer of her native lay,
Thou, who didst never falter or refuse
To aid young Genius in her upward way!
Thou of the kindly heart, the generous breast,
The spirit willing every wo to share;
The grass is green above thy place of rest,
And none has laid a grateful offering there!
The spirit willing every wo to share;
The grass is green above thy place of rest,
And none has laid a grateful offering there!
The Muse thou fosteredst, could she weave no lay,
To drape with honour thy last resting-place?
The land thou lovedst, could she bring no bay
Of evergreen and tear-gemmed memories?
To drape with honour thy last resting-place?
The land thou lovedst, could she bring no bay
Of evergreen and tear-gemmed memories?
147
I never heard thy voice, or saw thy face,
But I have proved thy friendship; and my hand
Has wreathed these pale flowers of the wilderness,
With living laurel of this Northern land;
But I have proved thy friendship; and my hand
Has wreathed these pale flowers of the wilderness,
With living laurel of this Northern land;
And I have brought my offering, with its dew,
From the deep fountain of a stricken heart;
To which thy warm and generous nature knew
The holy balm of friendship to impart.
From the deep fountain of a stricken heart;
To which thy warm and generous nature knew
The holy balm of friendship to impart.
Oh, let my tribute lie above thy breast;—
Could thy cold heart but feel the balmy flowers!—
Far holier garlands in the Land of Rest
Shed round thy spirit now their blissful powers.
Could thy cold heart but feel the balmy flowers!—
Far holier garlands in the Land of Rest
Shed round thy spirit now their blissful powers.
| The forest minstrel | |