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TO * * * *

“ The meed of some melodious tear” 1-0 spoke
The bard who lay by inspiration's oak:
So speaks the voice within the love that brings
Vain tribute-sweet, yet empty, offerings: .
Perchance a frail memorial—shedding bloom
Of short-lived odour on a nameless tomb.

Oh could I, like that priest of Nature's truth,
Bid th' angel “ homeward look 2 and melt with ruth!”
He wakes no strain, which angels stoop to hear,
Whose reed of hope has pierced him like a spear :
From whom the glory of his days is fled,
And all within is cold, and dark, and dead:

1 For Notes see the end.

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