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lady emmeline.
Beneath thy scythe, tho' empires pass away,
And countless charms the unconscious grave conceals,
Tho' o'er the laurel'd brow the dusky tomb
In sullen silence sheds its deep impervious gloom;—
And countless charms the unconscious grave conceals,
Tho' o'er the laurel'd brow the dusky tomb
In sullen silence sheds its deep impervious gloom;—
Not with his ebbing breath the poet dies,
He lives, he speaks to ages yet unborn!
Then boast not Time thy earthly mould'ring prize,
Still shall the Bard thy envious efforts scorn;
Ne'er shall his triumphs to thy sway belong,
All-hail'd by distant years, victorious in his song!
He lives, he speaks to ages yet unborn!
Then boast not Time thy earthly mould'ring prize,
Still shall the Bard thy envious efforts scorn;
Ne'er shall his triumphs to thy sway belong,
All-hail'd by distant years, victorious in his song!
Direct thy glance beyond life's fragile hour,
Oh Seward! lov'd of the Aonian Nine!
On thy full gaze bid all the future pour,
And raptur'd, see the admiring future thine!
See laurels bloom thy shadowy brow to wreathe,
Hear Bards, yet uncreate, an awful tribute breathe!
Oh Seward! lov'd of the Aonian Nine!
On thy full gaze bid all the future pour,
And raptur'd, see the admiring future thine!
See laurels bloom thy shadowy brow to wreathe,
Hear Bards, yet uncreate, an awful tribute breathe!
