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! ADONAIS I WEEP for Adonais I - he is dead! Oh, weep for Adonais! though our tears Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head! Died Adonais; till the Future dares Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be An echo and a light unto eternity!" II 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 veiled 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. III 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 Deep Will yet restore him to the vital air; Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair. IV 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 loathed 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 light. V 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 time 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 serene abode. VI But now, thy youngest, dearest one has per ished, The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew, Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherished And fed with true-love tears instead of dew; 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. VII To that high Capital, where kingly Death A grave among the eternal. Come away! VIII He will awake no more, oh, never more! His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place; |