THE DYING POET

Translated from Millevoye (He died a» 36 years of age), by Sir Tollemache Sinclair. A Poet sang, and from his faithful lamp serene The rays paled by degrees, then flickered and were quenched, And he, prepared, like it, to die and quit this scene, Then uttered these sad words, while grief his features blenched : Ah ! my life's flower is prematurely faded now. My course was fleet, my star unkindly was soon set. Of my sad stormy day I must alas avow. The eve almost the disappointing morning met. Ah ! break, melodious lyre, so much beloved by me, Thou'It not survive my last long sleep which I'll soon take, My songs which fame ne'er will in my short lifetime see. Will in the tomb sleep with me, and will ne'er awake, I'll not appear before the throne austere of worth, Where our Posterity, with an unswerving voice, Will grant the glories of this sad unheeding earth, Like Egypt on the banks of its lone lake, from birth, The shades of all its kings were judged by careful choice. Ah ! dear companions of my journey, sad through wrongs, Ah friends ! oh you, who were so dear to me alway, Accept the legacy of my imperfect songs. Some of my lines save from oblivion and decay. The poet sang, when suddenly his much loved lyre Escaped and fell from his too anxious eager hand. The lamp went out and then alas ! with fate as dire, He died unknown next day in his dear native land.