So long had slept, that fickle Fame Had blotted from her rolls their name, And twined round some new minion's head The fading wreath for which they bled;In sooth, 'twas strange, this old man's verse Could call them from their marble hearse. The Harper smiled, well-pleased; for ne'er Was flattery lost on poet's ear: A simple race! they waste their toil For the vain tribute of a smile; E'en when in' age their flame expires, Her dulcet breath can fan its fires: Their drooping fancy wakes at praise, Smiled then, well-pleased, the Aged Man, And thus his tale continued ran. THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. CANTO FIFTH. I. CALL it not vain :-they do not err, Who say, that, when the Poet dies, Mute Nature mourns her worshipper, Who say, tall cliff, and cavern lone, For the departed bard make moan; Through his loved groves that breezes sigh, And oaks, in deeper groan, reply; And rivers teach their rushing wave To murmur dirges round his grave. II. Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn Those things inanimate can mourn; Of those, who, else forgotten long, The maid's pale shade, who wails her lot, From rose and hawthorn shakes the tear The phantom knight, his glory fled, Mourns o'er the field he heaped with dead; |