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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 !
Oh, weep for Adonais ! though our tears
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head !
And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers,
And teach them thine sorrow !

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,
When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies
In darkness ? where was lorn Urania
When Adonais died ? With veilèd eyes,
'Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise
She sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath,
Rekindled all the fading melodies,
With which, like flowers that mock the corse

beneath, He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of death.


Oh, weep for Adonais – he is dead!
Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep!

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 !
Lament anew, Urania ! — He died,
Who was the sire of an immortal strain,
Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's pride
The priest, the slave, and the liberticide
Trampled and mocked with many a loathèd rite
Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified,

Into the gulf of death ; but his clear Sprite
Yet reigns o’er earth, the third among the sons of


Most musical of mourners, weep anew!
Not all to that bright station dared to climb;
And happier they their happiness who knew,
Whose tapers yet burn through that night of

In which suns perished; others more sublime,
Struck by the envious wrath of man or God,
Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime ;

And some yet live, treading the thorny road, Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's

sereno abode.


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
Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay,
He came; and bought, with price of purest

A grave among the eternal. — Come away!
Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day
Is yet his fitting charnel-roof! while still
He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay;

Awake him not! surely he takes his fill
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill.


He will awake no more, oh, never more!
Within the twilight chamber spreads apace
The shadow of white Death, and at the door
Invisible Corruption waits to trace
His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place;

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