Soul of the far but unforgotten past!
Queen of the sword and lady of the lyre!
Spirit of thoughts too high, of deeds too vast,
To fear, like clay, the waste of flood and fire,
Or darkly perish on oblivion's pyre--
Whence, like the birds from Memnon's pile, they spring
Born from the dust, but not with years to tire,
Or furl in death the everlasting wing!
Teach me, Oh! teach me, but for once to fling
My hand thy own triumphal harp along--
To strike one strain whose echoes yet may ring
Above the spot where rests a friend of song!--
Do I but dream the laurel yet may wave
Memorial verdure over its votary's grave?
Rev. John Johns (fl.1828)
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