A Tombless Epitaph

'Tis true, Idoloclastes Satyrane!(So call him, for so mingling Blame with PraiseAnd smiles with anxious looks, his earliest friends,Masking his birth-name, wont to characterHis wild-wood fancy and impetuous zeal,)'Tis true that, passionate for ancient truthsAnd honoring with religious love the GreatOf elder times, he hated to excess,With an unquiet and intolerant scorn,The hollow puppets of an hollow Age,Ever idolatrous, and changing everIts worthless Idols! Learning, Power, and Time,(Too much of all) thus wasting in vain warOf fervid colloquy. Sickness, tis true,Whole years of weary days, besieged him close,Even to the gates and inlets of his life!But it is true, no less, that strenuous, firm,And with a natural gladness, he maintained

The Citadel unconquer'd, and in joyWas strong to follow the delightful Muse.For not a hidden Path, that to the ShadesOf the belov'd Parnassian forest leads,Lurk'd undiscover'd by him; not a rillThere issues from the fount of Hippocrene,But he had trac'd it upward to its source,Thro' open glade, dark glen, and secret dell,Knew the gay wild flowers on its banks, and cull'dIts med'cinable herbs. Yea, oft alone,Piercing the long-neglected holy cave,The haunt obscure of old Philosophy,He bade with lifted torch its starry wallsSparkle, as erst they sparkled to the flameOf od'rous Lamps tended by Saint and Sage.O fram'd for calmer times and nobler hearts!O studious Poet, eloquent for truth!Philosopher! contemning wealth and death,Yet docile, childlike, full of Life and Love!Here, rather than on monumental stone,This record of thy worth thy Friend inscribes,Thoughtful, with quiet tears upon his cheek.