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The heart shall throb at thy command, The eye shall sparkle bright, And thou shalt give to many a land The impulse of delight.

Thou could'st assign an equal charm To all thy genius wrought, And bid Tradition's spectral arm Unclose the mines of thought. The Genii, that had long been bound With Slumber's iron chain, Obey'd thy lute's awakening sound And rose to life again.

The night that lost its brightest gem,— The Pleiad of the skies,— Which sparkled in its diadem Like light from seraph's eyes; Thy lyre bewail'd its early doom With too prophetic tone,— Unconscious that so dark a tomb So soon would cloud thine own.

Although the ocean rolls between Thy native land and thee, Endear'd to many a homely scene Thy hallow'd name shall be; Thy rich creations shall descend Along the stream of Time, And future ages fondly blend Thy beauty and thy rhyme.

Oh! peace unto the distant shore Where thy remains repose; Life's "fitful fever" now is o'er, And pass'd life's fitful woes; The silver chord is loosen'd now, The lute is thrown aside, The fount of song has ceased to flow With music in its tide.

Sweet Priestess of the classic Nine! Our tears are vainly shed, We cannot from their earthly shrine Recall the silent dead. But far beyond this world of care Thy home is with the blest,— The wicked cease from troubling there, And there the weary rest.