Page:New Yorker Obituary.pdf/13

 Thy hand is cold!—thy colors weave Their graceful lines no more! Yet, painter of each lovely face That lit our island shore, These faces from the canvass shine, And haunt us still with thee and thine.

Hero and beauty—all who flung Their spell around their day— Owe to thy pencil memories That will not pass away; The past—the present seems to be, Thanks to thy art and thee!

A stately and a solemn song, Such as the evening winds prolong In some cathedral aisle, When holy hope and lofty thought, From the soul's deep recesses brought, Attend the hymn the while.

There mingle with thy glorious strain No common fancies light and vain; Thy spirit was enshrined— Thy chords were thoughts—thy notes were given To all that links this earth with heaven, Musician of the mind

My little fairy chronicle, The prettiest of my tasks, farewell! Ere other eyes shall meet this line, Far other records will be mine; How many miles of trackless sea Will roll between my land and me!

I said thine elfin almanac Should call all pleasant hours back; Amid those pleasant hours, will none Think kindly on what I have done? Then, fairy page, I leave with thee Some memory of my songs and me.