Bard of brief days, but ah, of deathless fame!
While on these awful leaves my fond eyes rest,
On which thine late have dwelt, thy hand late press'd,
I pause; and gaze regretful on thy name.
By neither chance nor envy, time nor flame,
Be it from this its mansion dispossessed!
But thee, Eternity, clasps to her breast,
And in celestial splendour thrones thy claim.
No more with mortal pencil shalt thou trace
An imitative radiance: thy pure lyre,
Springs from our changeful atmosphere's embrace,
And beams and breathes in empyreal fire:
The Homeric and Miltonian sacred tone
Responsive hail that lyre congenial to their own.
Bury, 11th Jan. 1807.