None hath the vanished minstrel's wondrous skill
To touch that instrument with art and will.
With him winged Poesy doth droop and die,
While our dull age, left voiceless, with sad eye
Follows his flight to groves of song on high.

VIII.

Come, then, Mnemosyne, and on me wait,
As if for Ion's harp thou gav'st thine own!
Recall the memories of Man's ancient state,
Ere to this low orb had his form dropt down,
Clothed in the cerements of his chosen fate;
Oblivious here of heavenly glories flown,
Lapsed from the high, the fair, the blest estate,
Unknowing these, and by himself unknown :
Lo! Ion, unfallen from his lordly prime,
Paused in his passing flight, and, giving ear
To heedless sojourners in weary time,
Sang his full song of hope and lofty cheer;
Aroused them from dull sleep, from grisly fear,
And toward the stars their faces did uprear.

IX.

Why didst thou haste away, ere yet the green
Enamelled meadow, the sequestered dell,
The blossoming orchard, leafy grove, were seen
In the sweet season thou hadst sung so well?
Why cast this shadow o'er the vernal scene?
No more its rustic charms of thee may tell,

And so content us with their simple mien :
Was it that memory's unrelinquished spell
(Ere men had stumbled here amid the tombs)
Revived for thee that Spring's perennial blooms,
Those cloud-capped alcoves where we once did dwell?
Translated wast thou in some rapturous dream?
Our once familiar faces strange must seem
Whilst from thine own celestial smiles did stream !

X.

I tread the marble leading to his door
(Allowed the freedom of a chosen friend),
He greets me not as was his wont before,
The Fates within frown on me as of yore;
Could ye not once your offices suspend?
Had Atropos her severing shears forbore,
Or Clotho stooped the sundered thread to mend !
Yet why dear Ion's destiny deplore?

What more had envious Time himself to give?
His fame bad reached the ocean's farthest shore.
Why prisoned here should Ion longer live?
The questioning Sphinx declared him void of blame,
For wiser answer none could ever frame;
Beyond all time survives his mighty name.

XI.

Now pillowed near loved Hylas' lowly bed,
Beneath our aged oaks and sighing pines,
Pale Ion rests awhile his laurelled head;

(How sweet his slumber as he there reclines !)

Why weep for Ion here? He is not dead, Nought of him Personal that mound confines; The hues ethereal of the morning red This clod embraces never, nor enshrines. Away the mourning multitude hath sped, And round us closes fast the gathering night; As from the drowsy dell the sun declines, Ion hath vanished from our clouded sight. But on the morrow, with the budding May, A-field goes Ion, at first flush of day, Across the pastures on his dewy way.

CONCORD, May, 1882.

INDEX.