Here sleeps the Bard who knew so well

All the sweet windings of Apollo's shell;

Whether its music rolled like torrents near.

Or died, like distant streamlets, on the ear.

Sleep, sleep, mute bard; alike unheeded now

The storm and zephyr sweep thy lifeless brow;—

That storm, whose rush is like thy martial lay;

That breeze which, like thy love-song, dies away!