The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 41, Pages 428-429
III.
On the Memorials of Immature Genius.
Written after reading some unpublished Fragments by the late Mrs. Tighe.
Oh! judge in thoughtful tenderness of those
Who, richly dower'd for life, are call'd to die
Ere the soul's flame through storms hath won repose
In Truth's pure ether, unperturb’d and high.
Let their mind's relics claim a trustful sigh!
Deem them but sad sweet fragments of a strain,
First notes of some yet struggling harmony,
By the strong rush, the crowding joy and pain
Of many inspirations met, and held
From its true sphere. Oh! soon it might have swell'd
Majestically forth!—Nor doubt that He,
Whose touch mysterious may on earth dissolve
Those links of music, elsewhere will evolve
Their grand consummate hymn, from passion-gusts made free.
