XIII: The Memory Of Poets

The fame of those pure bards whose fancies lie
Like glorious clouds in summer's calmest even,
Fringing the western skirts of darkening heaven,
And sprinkled o'er with hues of rainbow dye,
Awakes no voice of thunder, which may vie
With mighty chiefs' renown;--from ages gone,
In low undying strain, it lengthens on,
The wildest solitudes with joy to fill,--
Felt breathing in the silence of the sky,
Or trembling in the gush of new-born rill,
Or whispering o'er the lake's unrippled breast;
And, when all mortal voices shall be still,
Preserved to mingle earth-born ecstacy
With the calm rapture of eternal rest.