No more his magic strain
Shall throw a sweeter spell around,
The legends of Almaine.

His fame had flown before him
To many a foreign land,
His lays are sung by every tongue,
And harp'd by every hand!
He came to cull fresh laurels,
But fate was in their breath,
And turn'd his march of triumph
Into a dirge of death.

O! all who knew him lov'd him,
For with his mighty mind,
He bore himself so meekly,
His heart it was so kind!
His wildly warbling melodies,
The storms that round them roll,
Are types of the simplicity
And grandeur of his soul.

Though years of ceaseless suffering
Had worn him to a shade,
So patient was his spirit,
No wayward plaint he made.
E'en death itself seem'd loath to scare
His victim pure and mild;
And stole upon him quietly
As slumber o'er a child.