At midnight rose a mighty Wind, and spread
  Like Lamentation over Land and Sea,
  It seem'd a mournful Voice that said to me -- 
‘Time sorroweth, and will not be comforted,
Because his youngest-born is dead, is dead!
  His diadem of golden-linked Hours
  Is fallen to the dust, and all its flowers
Are scatter'd -- mourn ye for that lovely Head!

‘I saw the Giant stand with folded wings
  At noon of Night upon the River-shore,
Hard by the tumult where the Torrent flings
  Its waters seaward, that are seen no more;
I mark'd the Spectre sailing swiftly down
Into the Ocean without robes or crown -- 

‘He was a Conqueror terrible and strong
  In Life -- and he is beautiful in Death;
  He was a Poet with harmonious breath;
He was a Lover with a charming tongue;
His festal nights, his triumphs, and his songs,
  Mourn ye -- his beauty to the Deep descended;
  His very tears are sweeter, being ended,
Than aught that to Futurity belongs.

‘Futurity is dark, the Past is dim:
  He was the fairest out of all his race;
In strength and glory none were like to him,
  Mourn -- for to-day ye saw him face to face;
And let us sing a dirge about his grave,
And speak good words of one we cannot save.’