E'en when in age their flame expires, Her dulcet breath can fan its fires: Their drooping fancy wakes at praise, And strives to trim the short-lived blaze. Smiled then, well-pleased, the Aged Man, And thus his tale continued ran. THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. CANTO FIFTH. CALL it not vain :they do not err, Mute Nature mourns her worshipper, Who And celebrates his obsequies; say, tall cliff, and cavern lone, For the departed bard make moan; That mountains weep in crystal rill; That flowers in tears of balm distil; |