Classic Poem

To that young life, so fresh, so brightly hued,
To that rich spring which autumn ne'er ensued,
To him as funeral offering let us bring
A spray plucked newly off, still blossoming.
But lately with this springtime's gladsome light
Our country glowed. Upon a rocky height
Where stood a ruined fort, there rose in air
A cloud-capt tower, a structure wondrous fair;
Whilst in the cavern where the gnomes of earth
With silent toil give shapes mysterious birth,
By Fancy's flickering flambeau-light betrayed,
We saw majestic hero-forms displayed;
And every sound in cleft or rift that stirred
Became instinct with life, a pregnant word.
With painted garlands and with warrior-troops,
With shapes of Satyrs and with festive groups
The ancients the sarcophagus adorned
That hid the burnt remains of him they mourned;
E'en so hath he for whom our tears are shed
With lively images his tomb o'erspread.

His ashes rest—his soaring spirit flies
To life, whose fulness we can scarce surmise,
Where even Art its heavenly goal may gain,
And mortal types beside th' Immortal wane.