Classic Poem

The minstrel on a bier reclines,
His pallid lips no songs outpour;
Its faded leaves the laurel twines
Around the brow that thinks no more.

And there, in scrolls rolled neatly round,
Are laid the songs that last he sang;
His hands still touch — without a sound —
The harp that once so blithely rang.

Tho' sleeping thus his last long sleep,
Still sound his songs in every ear,
And feed men's sorrow keen and deep
For loss of one sublime and dear.

Now many a month and year have fled,
Above him waves the cypress dim;
And they who mourned the minstrel dead,
Themselves have sunk to sleep, like him.

Yet as the spring returns, endued
With verdure fresh and quickening power:
So lives, with fame and youth renewed,
The minstrel — to this latest hour.

Unblighted by the grave's cold breath,
To living men he yet belongs;
The age, that once bemoaned his death.
Survives but in his deathless songs.