THE DYING MINSTREL TO HIS MUSE.

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BY WILLIAM FALCONER.

———

Farewell, gentle Muse! fare thee well, and for ever!

No more in the greenwood with thee must I stray:

Thy flowers which I cherished have bloomed but to wither,

Like youth’s vernal wreath, they all faded away:

Yet sweet was the morn, timid Muse, when I sought thee,

In the green ruined tower by the wild Scottish rill;

A heart framed for joy like the wine-cup I brought thee,

With Fancy’s rich draught thou the chalice didst fill.

O soft was thy dawning, thou mental Aurora,

It shed on my morning-dream heaven’s young ray,

With the seraph-wing’d bird through the cloudlets of glory

My soul soared exulting through life’s early day;

Then love’s vernal flush filled my bosom with gladness,

And she whom I loved shared its passion with thee;

She left me to pine in the chill shade of sadness,

Then crossed I in anguish the wide-spreading sea.

But thou wert more faithful, for rocked on the ocean

’Twas thou who mad’st lovely the dreams of my rest,

My spirit went forth on the wings of emotion

To sport with the bird o’er the blue waters’ breast.

Now in my pent bosom life’s last pulses tremble

Like sear fluttering leaves on yon wind-beaten tree,

With spring-loving birds on its boughs that assemble

My soul to the Land of the Spirit shall flee.

Then come, O my wild lyre, my sole earthly treasure,

’Neath Death’s downy pinions come slumber in peace;

Leave the world to the rosy-crown’d vot’ries of Pleasure,

Its garlands must wither—its Bacchanals cease!

Dear Enchantress, farewell! but that friend of my bosom

Revisit once more, o’er the waves’ deafening swell,

Inspire him that one fleeting flowret may blossom

To the memory of him who hath loved him so well!

Paris, France.