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!
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!