On a Dead Poet

The hand that swept the sounding lyre With more than mortal skill, The lightning eye, the heart of fire, The fervent lip are still! No more, in rapture or in woe, With melody to thrill, Ah, nevermore! But angel hands shall bring him balm For every grief he knew, And Heaven’s soft harps his soul shall calm With music sweet and true, And teach to him the holy charm Of Israfel anew, Forevermore! Love’s silver lyre he played so well Lies shattered on his tomb, But still in air its music-spell Floats on through light and gloom; And in the hearts where soft they fell, His words of beauty bloom Forevermore!

Collection: 
English
Frances Sargent Osgood

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