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| The Works of William Mason | ||
Yet ah! ye are not dead, Celestial Maids;
Immortal as ye are, ye may not die:
Nor is it meet ye fly these pensive glades,
Ere round his laureat herse ye heave the sigh.
Stay then awhile, oh stay, ye fleeting fair;
Revisit yet, nor hallow'd Hippocrene,
Nor Thespiæ's grove; till with harmonious teen
Ye sooth his shade, and slowly-dittied air.
Such tribute pour'd, again ye may repair
To what lov'd haunt ye whilom did elect;
Whether Lycæus, or that mountain fair,
Trim Mænalus, with piny verdure deckt.
But now it boots ye not in these to stray,
Or yet Cyllene's hoary shade to chuse,
Or where mild Ladon's welling waters play.
Forego each vain excuse,
And haste to Thames's shores; for Thames shall join
Our sad society, and passing mourn,
The tears fast-trickling o'er his silver urn.
And, when the Poet's widow'd grot he laves,
His reed-crown'd locks shall shake, his head shall bow,
His tide no more in eddies blithe shall rove,
But creep soft by with long-drawn murmurs slow.
For oft the mighty Master rous'd his waves
With martial notes, or lull'd with strain of love:
He must not now in brisk meanders flow
Gamesome, and kiss the sadly-silent shore,
Without the loan of some poetic woe.
Immortal as ye are, ye may not die:
Nor is it meet ye fly these pensive glades,
Ere round his laureat herse ye heave the sigh.
4
Revisit yet, nor hallow'd Hippocrene,
Nor Thespiæ's grove; till with harmonious teen
Ye sooth his shade, and slowly-dittied air.
Such tribute pour'd, again ye may repair
To what lov'd haunt ye whilom did elect;
Whether Lycæus, or that mountain fair,
Trim Mænalus, with piny verdure deckt.
But now it boots ye not in these to stray,
Or yet Cyllene's hoary shade to chuse,
Or where mild Ladon's welling waters play.
Forego each vain excuse,
And haste to Thames's shores; for Thames shall join
Our sad society, and passing mourn,
The tears fast-trickling o'er his silver urn.
And, when the Poet's widow'd grot he laves,
His reed-crown'd locks shall shake, his head shall bow,
His tide no more in eddies blithe shall rove,
But creep soft by with long-drawn murmurs slow.
For oft the mighty Master rous'd his waves
With martial notes, or lull'd with strain of love:
He must not now in brisk meanders flow
Gamesome, and kiss the sadly-silent shore,
Without the loan of some poetic woe.
| The Works of William Mason | ||