Shelley is dead, and Keats is dead,—and who Will take to-day the poet's harp and sing? Whose voice shall make the mountain-summits ring Or sound at night beneath the moon-lit blue?— Great souls are dead. Must English song die too, Die out and perish,—while our sea-waves bring Still their same ceaseless chant, and ceaseless spring Robes the sweet English flower-filled vales anew? Ah! while one English rose blooms red at morn Still shall fresh English deathless song be born, Pure and untrammelled as the English skies: And while one English woman still is fair, Music shall sound upon the English air:— Song is not dead, till the last woman dies. |