Classic Poem

Shelley is dead, and Keats is dead, — and who
Will take to-day the poet's harp and sing?
Whose voice shall make the mountain-summits ring
Or sound at night beneath the moonlit blue? —
Great souls are dead. Must English song die too.
Die out and perish, — while our sea-waves bring
Still their same ceaseless chant, and ceaseless spring
Robes the sweet English flower-filled vales anew?

Ah! while one English rose blooms red at morn
Still shall fresh English deathless song be born,
Pure and untrammelled as the English skies:
And while one English woman still is fair,
Music shall sound upon the English air: —
Song is not dead, till the last woman dies.