HE comes again! The latest, not the least desired! Too long, in mouldering tomes retired, We sought in vain Those breathing airs Which, from his instrument, Like vocal winds of perfume, blent To soothe man's piercing cares. Bullen, well done! Where Campion lies in London-land, Lulled by the thunders of the Strand, Screened from the sun, Surely there must Now pass some pleasant gleam Across his music-haunted dream Whose brain and lute are dust. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE ROMAN ROAD by THOMAS HARDY MEMORY OF THE IRISH DEAD by JOHN KELLS INGRAM THE PRESENT CRISIS by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL TO A DISTANT FRIEND by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE ANT-HEAP by ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 23 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |