HE comes again! The latest, not the least desired! Too long, in mouldering tomes retired, We sought in vain Those breathing airs Which, from his instrument, Like vocal winds of perfume, blent To soothe man's piercing cares. Bullen, well done! Where Campion lies in London-land, Lulled by the thunders of the Strand, Screened from the sun, Surely there must Now pass some pleasant gleam Across his music-haunted dream Whose brain and lute are dust. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CREATION by CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER THE RHYME OF SIR LAUNCELOT BOGLE; A LEGEND OF GLASGOW by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN THE HAPPY DAYS WHEN I WER YOUNG by WILLIAM BARNES IN REMEMBRANCE by ADRA CAROLINE BATCHELDER AN EPISTLE by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |