The harp of the Poet is silent in death
(That harp which so oft with love's witchery rung),
Ne'er again shall it waken in magical breath,
Or sing in that grandeur which lately it sung.
Yes, the bard has "fell pale" in a far, foreign land,
With "no mother to weep" o'er the patriot bier,
Though honoured his corse by each freeman's command—
Though hallowed his tomb by Achaia's cold tear.
He has left us all lonely in sorrow and sadness,
As the Sun shall depart when earth's reign is no more;
He has left us in Spring without one thought of gladness,
To wean us away from the "Childe" or the "Giaour."
Ah, long shall the lyre hang mute in the hall,
Ere it soar in those strains that in "Lara" it soared,
Ah, long shall it rest in the "canopied fall,"
Ere it burst forth again as a conqueror's sword.
His name "for all time" shall be wreathed with green,
And to Britons he dear as their country and kin—
While the maid shall oft weep o'er his "Haidee" unseen,
Though they tell her the measure be woven in sin.