A Vision of Combs.

Addressed to the “ Forget Me Not.

Forget them not ! oh, still forget them not !1
The Bards whose spirit hath inspired thy page ;2
Be not the memory of the dead forgot,3
Whose genius is thy proudest heritage !4
Alas for life ! what bosom might presage5
The shadow of the grave was with each name ?6
Some, gray and lonely at the door of age !7
Some in the golden morning of their fame8
Yet on the path of death all stricken down the same !9
A vision of far tombs oppressed my sight ;10
I saw Kilmeny wandering down the glen11
To seek her Shepherd by the hill’s lone height,12
Her Ettrick Bard, she ne’er might find again !13
And Scott—that Ocean mid the stream of men !14
That Alp, amidst all mental greatness reared !15
He, too, bowed down to Death’s recording pen :16
And Neele, Galt, Inglis, Malcolm—names endeared17
Passed pale, as one by one their visioned tombs appeared !18
The voice of Spring is breathing ! where art thou,19
Daughter of Genius, whose exalted mind20
From Nature’s noblest and sublimest brow21
Snatched Inspiration ! thou, whose heart combined22
Passions most pure, affections most refined ;23
Whose Muse with silver clarion wakes the land,24
Thrilling the finer feelings of mankind !25
Thine is the song to arm a patriot hand,26
Or start a thousand spears midst Freedom’s mountain band !27
Thine is the song to fill the Mother’s heart,28
Whose children bless thee—Hemans—round her knee !29
Thine is the gifted page that can impart30
A beauty born of immortality !31
The temple—shrine—and trophied urn—to thee32
Were themes enduring ! where’er Grief had trod,33
Or Hope fled tired from human misery,34
Thou stood’st with Song uplifted to thy God,35
Thou soothedst the mourner’s tears e’en by the burial sod !36
The beauteous spirit of the minstrel dead37
Comes with the harmonies and hues of morn ;38
Sits with my sorrowing heart when day hath fled,39
And folds her glorious wings—elysian born !40
A broken rose and violet dim adorn41
With their expressive grace her silent lyre :42
But, oh ! the wreath by that immortal worn !43
The inspiration and the seraph fire44
Which light those pleading eyes that unto heaven aspire !45
Still mourns Erinna—ever by that coast,46
Whose dismal winds shriek to each weeping cloud,47
Whose waves sweep solemn as a funeral host,48
Still mourns she Love’s own Minstrel, in her shroud ;49
The Sappho of that isle, in genius proud ;50
The Improvisatrice of our land ;51
The daughter of our soil—our fame-endowed !52
For her Erinna seeks the fatal strand,53
And lifts to distant shores her woe-prophetic hand !54
The blighted one ! the breast, whose sister tear55
Sprang to each touch of feeling—heaves no more !56
Our Landon, silent on her funeral bier,57
Far from our heart, sleeps on a foreign shore ;58
The voice of her—the song-inspired—is o’er ;59
Oh, she who wept for others found no tone60
To soothe the many parting griefs she bore ;61
None had a tear for that sweet spirit lone62
All sorrows found a balm save that far Minstrel’s own !63
Thou, who received’st her rose-encircled head,64
Our Minstrel in the bloom of her young fame,65
Give back our lost and loved !  Restore our dead !66
Return once more her first and dearest name !67
We claim her ashes ! ’tis a Nation’s claim !68
Her—in her wealth of mind—to thee we gave ;69
Yet—plead we for the dust of that dear frame :70
Oh, bear our world-lamented o’er the wave !71
Let England hold at last—’tis all she asks—her Grave !72