Читать книгу The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 20, No. 565, September 8, 1832 - Various - Страница 3

Ev'n till thy latest hour, Lucretia! thou

Didst cherish that which but consum'd thy frame.

'Twas then it shone the brightest on thy brow,

Like the last flickerings of an earthly flame—

Yes, thy brain harass'd by deep toil, became

With all its fire, a tenant of the tomb,

And dim is now thine eye, Belov'd of Fame!

Thy cheek is pale—thy lip without perfume—

And there thou liest—the child of Genius—and its doom.

Like the proud eagle soaring to the skies,

Intent "the topmost arch" of heaven to scale,

When heeding naught that would oppose its rise,

It breaks with fearless nerve the tempest-gale—

And spreads its wings like a majestic sail,

Full on the bosom of the raging blast,

Thy spirit soar'd—but ah! too like us frail,

When the same breeze which bore it from the dust

Wing'd home the fatal shaft that tore its bleeding breast.

Would I could sing thy fame with thine own lyre,

Then should I breathe a more deserving lay,

A lay which every spirit would inspire,

And melt each eye to tears of sympathy;

But others at thy shrine, their tributes pay.

Offspring of Beauty! child of native song!

And I, ev'n I, would venture to essay,

To raise my lauding voice amidst the throng

Of those who weep thy loss—and who shall weep it long!