Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/517



Worldly ones treading this terrace of graves, Grudge not the minstrel the little he craves, When o'er the snow-mound the winter-blast raves— Tears—which devotedly, Though all unnotedly, Flow from their spring, in the soul's silent caves.

Dreamers of noble thoughts, raise him a shrine, Graced with the beauty which lives in his line; Strew with pale flow'rets, when pensive moons shine, His grassy covering, Where spirits hovering, Chaunt, for his requiem, music divine.

Not as a record he lacketh a stone! Pay a light debt to the singer we've known— Proof that our love for his name hath not flown With the frame perishing— That we are cherishing Feelings akin to the lost Poet's own. 1em