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!