Blameless was Ion, beautiful to see, With native genius, with rich gifts endowed; He might of his descent be nobly proud, Yet meekly tempered was, spake modestly, Nor sought the plaudits of the noisy crowd, When Duty called him in the thick to be. His life flowed calmly clear, not hoarse nor loud; He wearied not of immortality, Nor like Tithonus begged a time-spun shroud; But life-long drank at fountains of pure truth, The seer unsated of eternal youth. ’Tis not for Ion’s sake these tears I shed, ’Tis for the Age he nursed, his genius fed,— Ion immortal is,—he is not dead. VI. Did e’en the Ionian bard, Mæonides, Blind minstrel wandering out of Asia’s night, The Iliad of Troy’s loves and rivalries, In strains forever tuneful to recite, His raptured listeners the more delight? Or dropt learned Plato ’neath his olive trees, More star-bright wisdom in the world’s full sight, Well garnered in familiar colloquies, Than did our harvester in fields of light? Nor spoke more charmingly young Charmides, Than our glad rhapsodist in his far flight Across the continents, both new and old; His tale to studious thousands thus he told In summer’s solstice and midwinter’s cold. VII. Shall from the shades another Orpheus rise Sweeping with venturous hand the vocal string, Kindle glad raptures, visions of surprise, And wake to ecstacy each slumberous thing; Flash life and thought anew in wondering eyes, As when our seer transcendent, sweet, and wise, World-wide his native melodies did sing, Flushed with fair hopes and ancient memories? Ah, no! his matchless lyre must silent lie, 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.