 | [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet |  |
160
THE MINSTREL
Where is now his tuneful number?
Who shall burst his harp's deep slumber?
Is there none to pour along
O'er its chords the melting song?
Have the strains that told so oft
How his spirit soared aloft,
Faded, now his light is dim?
Do they sleep in death with him?
Who shall burst his harp's deep slumber?
Is there none to pour along
O'er its chords the melting song?
Have the strains that told so oft
How his spirit soared aloft,
Faded, now his light is dim?
Do they sleep in death with him?
Know, beyond the reach of time,
Brighter still in memory's clime,
Where affection's seal was set,
Shall the minstrel linger yet.
Brighter still in memory's clime,
Where affection's seal was set,
Shall the minstrel linger yet.
Go, and make his grave beneath
Where the ivy loves to wreath,
O'er the elms that mark the spot,
Where his muse the minstrel sought;
'Neath the turf he loved in life,
Let him rest from mortal strife,
Hang the harp he cherished so,
On the green and waving bough,
And the breeze, that steals along,
There shall wake the hidden song,
Oft when midnight cold and still,
Slumbers on the misty hill,
Shall the minstrel's form unseen,
Glide along the noiseless green;
Mournful, then, the harp shall sigh,
While that form is passing by.
Where the ivy loves to wreath,
O'er the elms that mark the spot,
Where his muse the minstrel sought;
'Neath the turf he loved in life,
Let him rest from mortal strife,
Hang the harp he cherished so,
On the green and waving bough,
And the breeze, that steals along,
There shall wake the hidden song,
Oft when midnight cold and still,
Slumbers on the misty hill,
Shall the minstrel's form unseen,
Glide along the noiseless green;
Mournful, then, the harp shall sigh,
While that form is passing by.
Silent minstrel! peace to thee,
Green thy resting place shall be;
O'er the stone that marks thy grave,
Shall the winding ivy wave,
And affection's holy tear,
Oft, at eve, shall glisten there,
Though the harp no more shall thrill
To the hand of mystic skill,
Though the tones we loved to hear
Shall no longer chain the ear;
Still the memory of thy worth,
Shall be kept alive on earth.
Green thy resting place shall be;
O'er the stone that marks thy grave,
Shall the winding ivy wave,
And affection's holy tear,
Oft, at eve, shall glisten there,
Though the harp no more shall thrill
To the hand of mystic skill,
161
Shall no longer chain the ear;
Still the memory of thy worth,
Shall be kept alive on earth.
Haverhill Gazette, October 6, 1827
| [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet | |