Go forth, my Song, upon thy venturous way;
Go boldly forth; nor yet thy master blame
Who chose no patron for his humble lay,
And graced thy numbers with no friendly name
Whose partial zeal might smooth thy path to fame.
There was — and O, how many sorrows crowd
Into these two brief words! — there was a claim
By generous friendship given — had fate allowed,
It well had bid thee rank the proudest of the proud!

All angel now — yet little less than all
While still a pilgrim in our world below!
What 'vails it us that patience to recall
Which hid its own to soothe all other woes;
What 'vails to tell how Virtue's purest glow
Shone yet more lovely in a form so fair:
And, least of all, what 'vails the world should know
That one poor garland, twined to deck thy hair,
Is hung upon thy hearse to droop and wither there!