So long had slept, that fickle Fame Had blotted from her rolls their name, And twined round some new minion's head The fading wreath for which they bled;In sooth, 'twas strange, this old man's verse Could call them from their marble hearse. The Harper smiled, well pleased; for ne'er Was flattery lost on poet's ear: A simple race! they waste their toil For the vain tribute of a smile; E'en when in age their flame expires, Their drooping fancy wakes at praise, Smiled then, well-pleased, the Aged Man, And thus his tale continued ran. THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. CANTO FIFTH I. CALL it not vain :-they do not err, Who say, that, when the Poet dies, Who say, tall cliff, and cavern lone, For the departed bard make moan; Through his loved groves that breezes sigh, And oaks, in deeper groan, reply ; And rivers teach their rushing wave To murmur dirges round his grave. II. Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn Those things inanimate can mourn; Is vocal with the plaintive wail Of those, who, else forgotten long, Whose memory feels a second death. The maid's pale shade, who wails her lot, That love, true love, should be forgot, From rose and hawthorn shakes the tear Upon the gentle minstrel's bier : The phantom knight, his glory fled, Mourns o'er the field he heaped with dead; |