Читать книгу The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 326, August 9, 1828 - Various - Страница 2

Weep, for the word is spoken—

Mourn, for the knell hath knoll'd—

The master chord is broken,

And the master's hand is cold!

Romance hath lost her minstrel,

No more his magic strain

Shall throw a sweeter spell around,

The legends of Almaine.

His fame had flown before him

To many a foreign land,

His lays are sung by every tongue,

And harp'd by every hand!

He came to cull fresh laurels,

But fate was in their breath,

And turn'd his march of triumph

Into a dirge of death.

O! all who knew him lov'd him,

For with his mighty mind,

He bore himself so meekly,

His heart it was so kind!

His wildly warbling melodies,

The storms that round them roll,

Are types of the simplicity

And grandeur of his soul.

Though years of ceaseless suffering

Had worn him to a shade,

So patient was his spirit,

No wayward plaint he made.

E'en death itself seem'd loath to scare

His victim pure and mild;

And stole upon him quietly

As slumber o'er a child.

Weep, for the word is spoken—

Mourn, for the knell hath knoll'd—

The master chord is broken,

And the master's hand is cold!

The master chord is broken,

And the master's hand is cold!