by W. H. Rhodes
[Decoration]
XXII.
_POLLOCK'S EUTHANASIA._
He is gone! the young, and gifted! By his own strong pinions lifted To the stars;
Where he strikes, with minstrels olden, Choral harps, whose strings are golden, Deathless bars.
There, with Homer's ghost all hoary, Not with years, but fadeless glory, Lo! he stands;
And through that open portal, We behold the bards immortal Clasping hands!
Hark! how Rome's great epic master Sings, that death is no disaster To the wise;
Fame on earth is but a menial, But it reigns a king perennial In the skies!
Albion's blind old bard heroic, Statesman, sage, and Christian stoic, Greets his son;
Whilst in paeans wild and glorious, Like his "Paradise victorious," Sings, Well done!
Lo! a bard with forehead pendent, But with glory's beams resplendent As a star;
Slow descends from regions higher, With a crown and golden lyre In his car.
All around him, crowd as minions, Thrones and sceptres, and dominions, Kings and Queens;
Ages past and ages present, Lord and dame, and prince and peasant, His demesnes!
Approach! young bard hesperian, Welcome to the heights empyrean, Thou did'st sing,
Ere yet thy trembling fingers Struck where fame immortal lingers, In the string.
Kneel! I am the bard of Avon, And the Realm of song in Heaven Is my own;
Long thy verse shall live in story, And thy Lyre I crown with glory, And a throne!