Edward Moxon (1801-1858)

Coleridge: 1834

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!