And is the minstrel's voyage o'er?
And is the star of genius fled?
And will his magic harp no more,
Mute in the mansions of the dead,
Its strains seraphic pour?
A pilgrim in this world of woe,
Condemn'd, alas! awhile to stray,
Where bristly thorns, where briers grow,
He bade, to cheer the gloomy way,
Its heavenly music flow.
And oft he bade, by fame inspired,
Its wild notes seek the ethereal plain,
Till angels, by its music fired,
Have, listening, caught the ecstatic strain,
Have wonder'd, and admired.
But now secure on happier shores,
With choirs of sainted souls he sings;
His harp the Omnipotent adores,
And from its sweet, its silver strings
Celestial music pours.
And though on earth, no more he'll weave
The lay that's fraught with magic fire,
Yet oft shall Fancy hear at eve
His now exalted heavenly lyre
In sounds Æolian grieve.
B. Stoke.