 | The Poetical Works of Robert Story |  |
Mute is the Lyre of Ebor.
1842.
“We bring our years to an end, as it were a tale that is told.”
Psalms.
[_]
[On the death of John Nicholson, well known in the North as “The Airedale Poet.” His life has been foreibly written by my friend John James, and prefixed to a posthumous edition of the poet's works—published for the benefit of his widow and children. Mr. James is himself distinguished by a “History of Bradford,” which has been pronounced one of the very best local histories extant.]
Mute is the Lyre of Ebor! cold
The Minstrel of the streamy Aire!
The “years” are passed, the “tale” is told:
Prepare the shroud, the grave prepare!
The Minstrel of the streamy Aire!
The “years” are passed, the “tale” is told:
Prepare the shroud, the grave prepare!
The tale is told—what is the tale?
The same that still the ear hath won,
As oft as, in life's humbler vale,
Genius hath found a wayward Son.
The same that still the ear hath won,
As oft as, in life's humbler vale,
Genius hath found a wayward Son.
279
First comes the magic time of life,
When Boyhood sees nor dreams of gloom;
And when within the breast are rife
Thoughts that are made of light and bloom!
When Boyhood sees nor dreams of gloom;
And when within the breast are rife
Thoughts that are made of light and bloom!
Then Youth will all its burning hopes
Of fame and glory ne'er to die,
When manfully with fate he copes,
And will not see a peril nigh.
Of fame and glory ne'er to die,
When manfully with fate he copes,
And will not see a peril nigh.
At length he gives to public gaze
The transcript of his glowing thought;
And vulgar marvel, high-born praise,
Seem earnests of the meed he sought.
The transcript of his glowing thought;
And vulgar marvel, high-born praise,
Seem earnests of the meed he sought.
Now round him crowd, where'er he wends,
His mind yet pure and undebased,
The countless troop of talent's friends,
Men who affect—but have not—taste.
His mind yet pure and undebased,
The countless troop of talent's friends,
Men who affect—but have not—taste.
These bid him press to eager lips
The double poison of their bowl—
Flatteries that weaken as he sips,
And draughts that darken sense and soul:
The double poison of their bowl—
Flatteries that weaken as he sips,
And draughts that darken sense and soul:
O for a voice to rouse him up,
To warn him, ere too late it be,
That Frenzy mantles in the cup,
And that its dregs are—Misery!
To warn him, ere too late it be,
That Frenzy mantles in the cup,
And that its dregs are—Misery!
Days pass—years roll—the novelty
That charmed at first, is faded now:
And men that sought his hour of glee,
Repel him with an altered brow.
That charmed at first, is faded now:
And men that sought his hour of glee,
Repel him with an altered brow.
280
Where is the bard's indignant breath?
Alas, the bard, from habits learned,
Is powerless to resent; and Death
Kindly receives him—spent and spurned!
Alas, the bard, from habits learned,
Is powerless to resent; and Death
Kindly receives him—spent and spurned!
Talk ye of Fame? O! he hath borne
Contempt, alive; but praise him, dead!
Ay, mourn him—whom ye left to mourn!
Give him a stone—ye gave not bread!
Contempt, alive; but praise him, dead!
Ay, mourn him—whom ye left to mourn!
Give him a stone—ye gave not bread!
No more. The old, sad tale is told
Prepare the shroud, the grave prepare;
For mute is Ebor's Lyre, and cold
The Minstrel of the streamy Aire!
Prepare the shroud, the grave prepare;
For mute is Ebor's Lyre, and cold
The Minstrel of the streamy Aire!
| The Poetical Works of Robert Story | |