A Poet’s Aspiration

When silent in the grave I lie May some fond hearts remember me; ’Twould be a double death to die To fall from life and memory!

I would not have a hero’s fame, His wreath of laurel soiled with blood, Though shouting nations hailed my name As age succeeding age ensued.

I would not have a poet’s praise, Though sounded loudly through the earth, If serpent-vice lurked in my lays Or impious thoughts attained a birth.

Ah! who can touch the poet’s lyre, And not its sounds his breast inflame, With glowing, ardent, fond desire, To gain the lasting meed of fame?

My hand has strayed amid its chords! Oh could I from its strings ring forth Some passioned lay, whose deathless words The distant times might deem of worth!

Some feeling song to touch the heart, To prompt to virtue—teach to live, Religion’s sweetest truths impart, And hope beyond the grave to give.

Should this be mine—should any come In after days to gladly strew A votive offering on my tomb, And pay a tribute deemed as due;

Then may they view the resting-spot Of one, whose deeds and life have given A hope assured his earthly lot Was ended in the rest of heaven.

When silent in the grave I lie, If thus fond hearts remember me, ’Twould be but half a death to die To own so fair a memory.