Edward Moxon (1801-1858)
The muses weep around their ancient seat;
The streams of Stowey heave a piteous moan;
The nightingales he loved sit mute and lone;
And the sad Lars leave not their dumb retreat.
The dryads keep within their mossy cells;
The flowers there open not at morn nor eve;
The hills re-echo with a thousand knells,
For he is gone for whom all shepherds grieve.
He made the sweetest Music of them all,
And when he sang nor old nor young would stir;
You could not even hear the waterfall
While he rehearsed that "Ancient Mariner,"
Or told in accents that like manna fell
The wild and wondrous tale of Christabel!