Inscribe on my grave-stone—“_Here lies one whose name was writ
in water._” John Keats.
To that sweet land of lyre and song,
Of storied ancient fame,
Where deeds of old, like pilgrims throng,
To bless its mighty name;
A minstrel went, unloved, to weep,
And lay his aching heart,
Where golden skies serenely sleep.
And fruited gardens start.
’Tis bitter for the young to die,
And leave this world of ours,
Its sunshine and its sparkling sky,
Its paradise of flowers—
But oh! when tears mark every track,
And woes lead on to death,
’Tis blessedness to render back
The feeble, gasping breath!
The brightest, frailest, fairest things
That to the earth are given,
Feel first the angel’s snowy wings
To waft them home to heaven—
And like a meteor in the sky,
Or foam-beads on the wave,
They dazzle man’s bewildered eye,
And sink into the grave.
Oh! what is Genius but a part
Of Him, whose glory flings
A bliss o’er each devoted heart,
And o’er all earth-born things?—
An essence of the mind of God,
A pure ethereal light,
That wingeth at its master’s nod,
As angels to their flight.
Farewell! thou art not yet forgot,
Nor wilt thou ever be,
While earth has one sweet Eden spot,
Or stars laugh on the sea—
Thou hast thy wish, and on the bed
Where thou dost gently rest,
The summer daisy waves its head,
And blossoms o’er thy breast.
* * * * *