The Poet's Grave
An idle art the Poet brings;
Let high Philosophy control,
And sages calm the stream of life,
'Tis he refines its fountain springs,
The nobler passions of the soul." -Campbell
Be it beside the ocean's foamy surge,
On an untrodden, solitary shore,
Where the wind sings an everlasting dirge,
And the wild wave, in its tremendous roar,
Sweeps o'er the sod !—There let his ashes lie,
Cold and unmourned; save, when the seamew's cry
Is wafted on the gale, as if 'twere given
For him whose hand is cold, whose lyre is riven!
There, all in silence, let him sleep his sleep!
No dream shall flit into that slumber deep—
No wandering mortal thither once shall wend,
There, nothing o'er him but the heavens shall weep,
There, never pilgrim at his shrine shall bend,
But holy stars alone their nightly vigils keep!