[Lyric] Read at Emersons Funeral (Amos Bronson Alcott)

His harp is silent; shall successors rise,
Touching with venturous hand the trembling string,
Kindle glad raptures, visions of surprise,
And wake to ecstasy each slumbering thing?
Shall life and thought flash new in wondering eyes,
As when the seer transcendant, sweet and wise,
World-wide his native melodies did sing,
Flushed with fair hopes and ancient memories?

Ah no: that matchless lyre shall 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, must lament
The bard high Heaven had for its service sent.