 | The book of the dead |  |
161
[LXXVIII. Now thou art gone, in vain to me]
Now thou art gone, in vain to me
Is any stir of human praise;
Such trophies as I won for thee,
Lie in the shadow of my days.
Is any stir of human praise;
Such trophies as I won for thee,
Lie in the shadow of my days.
I see, with melancholy scorn,
My bay-wreath falling, leaf by leaf;
It lies in ashes, soiled and torn,
O'er-stained with tears of rage and grief.
My bay-wreath falling, leaf by leaf;
It lies in ashes, soiled and torn,
O'er-stained with tears of rage and grief.
My lyre is hushed: the breezes wake
Its trembling strings to better cheer;
My listless fingers only make
A murmur in death's moody ear.
Its trembling strings to better cheer;
My listless fingers only make
A murmur in death's moody ear.
Partly because some spirit strong
Urged me to sing, I sang awhile;
But more than half my faulty song
Was raised to draw thy partial smile.
Urged me to sing, I sang awhile;
But more than half my faulty song
Was raised to draw thy partial smile.
162
Think as I will, I cannot bring
My mind to deem thee far, nor strange
This voice to thee; and so I sing,—
Only I sing to suit thy change.
My mind to deem thee far, nor strange
This voice to thee; and so I sing,—
Only I sing to suit thy change.
To thee it matters naught, to me
But little, what my ballads' fate:
They shall receive a smile from thee,
Hereafter, in some happier state.
But little, what my ballads' fate:
They shall receive a smile from thee,
Hereafter, in some happier state.
| The book of the dead | |