ALASTOR. Yet safe from the worm’s outrage, let no tear Be shed—not even in thought. Nor, when those hues Are gone, and those divinest lineaments, Worn by the senseless wind, shall live alone In the frail pauses of this simple strain, Let not high verse mourning the memory Of that which is nc more, or painting’s woe, Or sculpture, speak in feeble imagery Their own cold powers. Art and eloquence, And all the shows o’ the world, are frail and vain To weep a loss that turns their lights to shade. It is a woe “ too deep for tears” when all Is reft at once, when some surpassing Spirit, Whose light adorned the world around it, leaves Those who remain behind, not sobs or groans, The passionate tumult of a clinging hope,—■ But pale despair and cold tranquillity, Nature’s vast frame, the web of human things, Birth and the grave, that are not as they were.