EPILOGUE.
169
The man remains, and whatsoe'er
He wrought of good or brave
Will mould him thro' the cycle-year
That dawns behind the grave.
And here the Singer for his Art
Not all in vain may plead
The song that nerves a nation's heart,
Is in itself a deed.'
He wrought of good or brave
Will mould him thro' the cycle-year
That dawns behind the grave.
And here the Singer for his Art
Not all in vain may plead
The song that nerves a nation's heart,
Is in itself a deed.'
