I CLOSED the book, but fancied still
I heard, like distant music roll,
The far-off echoes in my soul
Of his great life. I listened till,
Entranced, I thought that I could hear
His grand old voice amid the gloom;
And in the twilight-flooded room
I almost felt that he was near.
Thou didst not die, O Milton, when
Thy life on earth had ceased to be;
They never die who pass, like thee,
Enriching all their brother-men.
As often, on the edge of morn,
Lingers one star, its fellows gone,
Thou shin'st alone, and shalt shine on,
An age of ages yet unborn.

More verses by Frederick George Scott