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XIV.
ON THE DEATH OF ALLSTON.
The element of beauty which in theeWas a prevailing spirit, pure and high,
And from all guile had made thy being free,
Now seems to whisper thou canst never die!
For Nature's priests we shed no idle tear,
Their mantles on a noble lineage fall;
Though thy white locks at length have pressed the bier,
Death could not fold thee in Oblivion's pall:
Majestic forms thy hand in grace arrayed,
Eternal watch shall keep beside thy tomb,
And hues aerial that thy pencil stayed,
Its shades with Heaven's radiance illume;
Art's meek apostle, holy is thy sway,
From the heart's records ne'er to pass away!
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