Classic Poem

O FOR the harp which once — but through the strings,
Far o'er the sea, the dismal night-wind sings;
Where is the hand that swept it? — cold and mute
The lifeless Master and the voiceless lute!
The crowded hall, the murmur and the gaze,
The look of envy and the voice of praise,
And friendship's smile, and passion's treasured vow, —
All these are nothing, — life is nothing now!
But the hushed triumph, and the garb of gloom,
The sorrow, deep but mute, around the tomb,
The soldier's silence, and the matron's tear, —
These are the trappings of the sable bier
Which Time corrupts not, Falsehood cannot hide,
Nor Folly scorn, nor Calumny deride.
And " what is writ, is writ!" — the guilt and shame —
All eyes have seen them, and all lips may blame;
Where is the record of the wrong that stung,
The charm that tempted, and the grief that wrung?
Let feeble hands, iniquitously just,
Rake up the relics of the sinful dust,
Let Ignorance mock the pang it cannot feel,
And Malice brand, what Mercy would conceal;
It matters not! he died as all would die;
Greece had his earliest song, his latest sigh;
And o'er the shrine in which that cold heart sleeps
Glory looks dim, and joyous Conquest weeps. —
The maids of Athens to the spot shall bring
The freshest roses of the new-born spring,
And Spartan boys their first-won wreath shall bear
To bloom round B YRON'S urn, or droop in sadness there!