Stay! ere thou seek'st to join thy kindred sky, Ah give the magic wreathe that bound thy brow. Do not, lov'd shade, the fond request deny, But o'er my head the deathless circlet throw; Give me the breath that tun'd thy matchless lyre, The throbbing pulse that beat in every line, Give me thy dying softness, and that fire, Which never liv'd in any breast save thine. Live in my heart the wild energic strain, That through each line emphatically flow'd, Nor let mortality with truth complain That angels snatch'd thee to their bless'd abode. Still, as thou fly'st to Heaven's blue concave, say, ROSA! thy prayer shall be to all preferr'd; And as thou wing'st thy bright seraphic way, Let wondering mortals find my prayers are heard. Downing-street.
