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my poem, I should have been tempted to add my feeble tribute of applause to the more solid recompense which the virtuous man finds in the recollection of his own motives. Mr. Severn can dispense with a reward from “such stuff as dreams are made of.” His conduct is a golden augury of the success of his future career — may the unextinguished Spirit of his illustrious friend animate the creations of his pencil, and plead against Oblivion for his name !
I WEEP for Adonais - he is dead !
Say : 66 With me Died Adonais; till the Future dares
Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be An echo and a light unto eternity!"
Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay,
beneath, He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of death.
Oh, weep for Adonais – he is dead!
Yet wherefore ? Quench within their burning
bed Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep Like his a mute and uncomplaining sleep; For he is gone where all things wise and fair Descend. Oh, dream not that the amorous
Deep Will yet restore him to the vital air; Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our
Most musical of mourners, weep again !
Into the gulf of death ; but his clear Sprite
Most musical of mourners, weep anew!
And some yet live, treading the thorny road, Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's
But now, thy youngest, dearest one has per
ished, The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew, Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cher
ished And fed with true-love tears instead of dew; Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last, The bloom, whose petals, nipped before they
blew, Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste; The broken lily lies — the storm is overpast.
To that high Capital, where kingly Death
Awake him not! surely he takes his fill
He will awake no more, oh, never more!