The exquisite evangelist moves no more,
Midst silence and solitude she dwells,
And heartache upon the barbs of lovers,
Has given poet bruises that deadly swell.

No divine pleasure, joy without measure,
As generous as her sweltering song,
Since the sublime, immortal power of Blake,
Hath any voice lifted itself above throng.

Rapt in throe, the discerning one,
Doth transcribe thrills in to verse,
Doth sweetly scale the heathen vales,
Till we lay flowers on her hearse.