University of Virginia Library


109

SONNET, WRITTEN IN A BURIAL PLACE.

Ah! me, and must I, like the tenant, lie,
Of this dark cell, all hush'd the witching song,
And will not Feeling bend his streaming eye
On my green sod, as slow he wends along,
And, smiting his rapt bosom, softly sigh,
“His Genius soar'd above the vulgar throng!”
Will he not fence my weedless turf around,
Sacred from dull-ey'd Folly's vagrant feet,
And, there, soft swelling in aerial sound,
Will he not list, at eve, to voices sweet,
Strew with the spring's first flow'rs the little mound,
And often muse within the lone retreat!

110

Yes;—though I not affect th'immortal bay,
Nor bold effusions of the learned quill,
Nor often have I wound my tedious way
Up the steep summit of the Muse's hill,
Yet sometimes, have I pour'd th'incondite lay,
And, sometimes, have I felt the rapt'rous thrill;
Him, therefore, whom, ev'n once, the sacred Muse
Has blest, shall be to Feeling ever dear,
And soft as sweet sad April's gleamy dews,
On my cold clay shall fall the genial tear,
While, pensive, as the springing herb he views,
He cries “Tho' mute, there is a Poet here!”