ode to time.
31
And are those eyes but meteors of a day?
Doom'd is that hand in mould'ring dust to sleep?
Those eyes whence Genius pours his living ray,
That hand, so skill'd the Muse's lyre to sweep!
Yes, tho' the hand must perish, yet the song
Wak'd by its touch survives, in echoes loud and long!
Doom'd is that hand in mould'ring dust to sleep?
Those eyes whence Genius pours his living ray,
That hand, so skill'd the Muse's lyre to sweep!
Yes, tho' the hand must perish, yet the song
Wak'd by its touch survives, in echoes loud and long!
Then Seward, live till Time itself shall close,
Nor mourn mortality's promiscuous doom,
Since Death in vain his dreaded ice-bolt throws,
To blast the laurel Genius bids to bloom!
Lift to thy Muse the soul-enkindled eye,
She grants a glorious boon—'tis Immortality!
Nor mourn mortality's promiscuous doom,
Since Death in vain his dreaded ice-bolt throws,
To blast the laurel Genius bids to bloom!
Lift to thy Muse the soul-enkindled eye,
She grants a glorious boon—'tis Immortality!
