Classic Poem

And is all sense, all feeling gone,
All sign of latent life;
The panting breast, the feeble moan,
The gentle spirit's strife,
When love with weakness struggled sore
To lick his mistress' hand once more?
Yes! all is o'er; poor Manx is dead,
And the infrequent tear
From eyes not prone to weep is shed
On Manx's humble bier;

O'er him, the faithful, fond, and mild,
Though long beloved, by love unspoiled.
Yet not untimely was his death,
For age had blanched his hair;
And his weak form and quivering breath
Were kept alive by care;
Such care as rears the new-fall'n lamb
When biting frosts have killed its dam.

And well had he such care deserved,
When age and sickness fell,
From her who in his youth he served
So faithfully and well.
From life's first cry to death's last moan
No other mistress had he known;
And though so weak his trembling frame,
Yet still his step to meet me came,
His eye was turned on me;
And more I loved as more I feared,
And every care the more endeared.

Witness of Friendship's social talk,
Of sweet affection's praise,
Linked in with every pleasant thought,
That hope inspired or memory taught.
Oh, few and mournful flowers have stood
November's blast and dew,
Yet one last rose, sad southernwood,
Pale lavender and rue,
Myrtle and cistus' balmy breath
Shall sweeten thy dear corse in death!

Oh, harsh and broken is the lyre
And all untuned the string,
And yet, though quenched the minstrel fire,
Still, still of Manx I sing;
And long the rude lament shall swell
For him who loved and served so well.