Rev. John Dyer

Anonymous, "Lines written at Grongar Hill" Ladies' Monthly Museum S3 19 (June 1824) 347-48.

Here Dyer wrote; the classic spot
Is hallowed, though he heeds it not.
Though cold in death the Minstrel lies,
His is the fame that never dies.
The floods, the fields, the lonely van
Far from the busy hands of man,
Are his, the poet's heritage.
Stranger! art thou a minstrel, sage,
Or moralist? e'en such was he;
Then pause where once he wrote for thee,
The world, and for eternity.

Here are the meads through which he roved,
Here are the tuneful streams he loved;
And onward, onward, still they glide,
Exulting in poetic pride.
And long as they shall glide along,
Long as the thrush shall trill her song,
Long as the breeze, while all is still,
Shall kiss the groves of Grongar hill,
So long the poet's verse shall bloom,
A rainbow, glittering on his tomb.

Oft, too, at mellow even-tide,
Shall beauty pace the mountain side,
And bright eyes brighter grow, when feeling
His influence o'er their senses, stealing.
Oft too shall embryo ages come,
To hang their garland on his tomb,
And swell the minstrel's classic fame,
When we are but an empty name,
A bubble glistening o'er the sea,
That bursts into eternity.

The flood of time rolls darkling on,
Wave after wave, 'till all is gone.
The warrior lives his little day,
Then passes, like a dream, away!
The maudlin lover weeps, and sighs,
To steal one glance from beauty's eyes;
Wins to his suit the pretty charm,
Then yields his conquest to the worm.
But verse survives such dull decay;
'Tis fame's eternal holiday
That bids the wearied soul resume
'Mid ages' fresh, its summer bloom.