From a Monody on J. W. Eastburn

But now, that cherish'd voice was near;
And all around yet breathes of him; —
We look, and we can only hear
The parting wings of cherubim!
Mourn ye, whom haply nature taught
To share the bard's communion high;
To scan the ideal world of thought,
That floats before the poet's eye; —
Ye, who with ears o'ersated long,
From native bards disgusted fly,
Expecting only, in their song,
The ribald strains of calumny; —
Mourn ye a minstrel chaste as sweet,
Who caught from heaven no doubtful fire,
But chose immortal themes as meet
Alone for an immortal lyre.
O silent shell! thy chords are riven!
That heart lies cold before its prime!
Mute are those lips, that might have given
One deathless descant to our clime!
No laurel chaplet twines he now;
He sweeps a harp of heavenly tone,
And plucks the amaranth for his brow
That springs beside the eternal throne.
Mourn ye, whom friendship's silver chain
Link'd with his soul in bonds refined;
That earth had striven to burst in vain, —
The sacred sympathy of mind.
Still long that sympathy shall last:
Still shall each object, like a spell,
Recall from fate the buried past,
Present the mind beloved so well.
That pure intelligence — Oh where
Now is its onward progress won?
Through what new regions does it dare
Push the bold quest on earth begun?
In realms with boundless glory fraught,
Where fancy can no trophies raise —
In blissful vision, where the thought
Is whelm'd in wonder and in praise!
Till life's last pulse, O triply dear,
A loftier strain is due to thee;
But constant memory's votive tear
Thy sacred epitaph must be.