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to Roine, and attended in his last illness by Mr. Severn, a
young artist of the highest promise, who, I have been in-
formed, “almost risked his own life, and sacrificed every
prospect, to unwearied attendance upon his dying friend."
Had I known these circumstances before the completion of
my poem, I should have been tempted to add my feeble
tribute of applause to the more solid recompense which the
virtuous man finds in the recollection of his own motives.
Mr. Severn can dispense with a reward from “such stuff as
dreams are made of.” His conduct is a golden augury of
the success of his future career-may the unextinguished
spirit of his illustrious friend animate the creations of his
pencil, and plead agaiust oblivion for his namo!

" Fluo ko da su a

quoted, but not verbation, from a letter addresses Sleduel Huel to par Gisborne,

Munettes { Hroria kuu bitte abut key




I WEEP for ADONAIS—he is dead !
0, weep for Adonais ! though our tears
Thaw not the frost which binds so deara head!
And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure com peers,
And teach them thine own sorrow; say: With me
Died Adonais; till the Future dares

Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be
An echo and a light unto eternity!


Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay,
When thy son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies
In darkness? where was lorn Urania
When Adonais died ?

With veiled eyes,
'Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise
She sat, while one, with soft enamoured breathi,
Rekindled all the fading melodies,
With which, like flowers that mock the corse

beneath, He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of death.


Oh, weep for Adonais—he is dead !
Wake?, melancholy Mother, wake and weep!
Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed
Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep,
Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep;
For be is gone, where all things wise and fair
Descend :-oh, dream not that the amorous Deep

Will yet restore him to the vital air;
Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our

Most musical of mourners, weep again!
Lament anew, Urania!--He died,
Who was the sire of an immortal strain,
Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's pride
The priest, the slave, and the liberticide
Trampled and mocked with many a loathèd rite
Qf lust and blood; he went, unterrified,

Into the gulf of death; but his clear sprite
Yet reigns o'er earth; the third among the sons of

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Most musical of mourners, weep anew!
Not all to that bright station dared to climb:
And happier they their happiness who knew,
Whose tapers yet burn through that night of

In which suns perished; others more sublime,

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Struck by the envious wrath of man or god,
Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime;

And some yet live, treading the thorny road,
Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's

serene abode.


But now, thy youngest, dearest one, has pe

The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew,
Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherished
And fed with true-love tears instead of dew;
Most musical of mourners, weep anew!
Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last,
The bloom, whose petals nipt before they

Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste ;
The broken lily lies—the storm is overpast.


To that high capital, where kingly Death
Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay,
He came; and bought, with price of purest

A grave among

the eternal.—Come away!
Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day

yet his fitting charnel-roof! while still
He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay;

Awake him not ! surely he takes his fill
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill.


He will awake no more, oh, never more!
Within the twilight chamber spreads apace
The shadow of white Death, and at the door
Invisible Corruption waits to trace
His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place ;
The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe
Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface

So fair a prey, till darkness and the law
Đf change, shall o'er his sleep the mortal curtain



Oh, weep for Adonais !—The quick Dreams, The passion-winged ministers of thought, Who were his flocks, whom near the living

streams Of his young spirit be fed, and whom he taught The love which was its music, wander not,Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain, But droop there, whence they sprung; and

mourn their lot Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet

pain, They ne'er will gather strength, nor find a home



And one with trembling hand clasps his cold

head, And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries, “Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead;

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