The lamp will shed a feeble glimmering light,

Until the oil which fed its flame be spent;

The small stars twinkle in the firmament,

And the moon's pallid orb arise on night,

When day has waned;—the scath’d tree, in despite

Of age look green, with ivy-wreaths besprent;

And faded roses still retain their scent,

When death shall make them loveless to the sight.

So linger on, as seeming loth to die,

Light, strength, and sweetness:—thus unto the last 10

The poet o’er his lyre's lov’d strings will cast

A nerveless hand—and his fond labours ply;

Not unrewarded if its parting sigh

Seem like the lingering echo of the past!